


A Wolven Storm

by ShoutIntoTheVoid



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 37,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShoutIntoTheVoid/pseuds/ShoutIntoTheVoid
Summary: It's been six years since Niedamir's mountain, and things have seemingly settled at Kaer Morhen. That is, until word of a Witcher's bard captured by Nilfgaard reaches the ears of the old keep. Geralt and Yennefer team up to save Jaskier and fill a void in their makeshift family they didn't know was there until it was threatened.They'll end up with so much more: new chances at love, and an opportunity to stick it to Nilfgaard once and for all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Priscilla, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Priscilla/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengeberg
Comments: 73
Kudos: 406





	1. Chapter 1

Yennefer was getting too old for this sort of déjà vu.

Not that she was old, mind you, but the last few years were certainly taking their toll. At this rate it wouldn’t be a surprise if she were to wake one day and find all her hairs had grayed overnight. In the handful of years since Sodden, Yennefer would find herself longing for the simpler times when her problems were as petty as the incident with the djinn or the whole blasted affair on the mountain. She would even think back to her early days in Aretuza with an air of nostalgia. What a picnic on a summer’s day those troubles had been compared to the bullshit this war had wrought. 

First there was waking up after Sodden nearly drained of all life, let alone her chaos. Then there was being found by Geralt and his child surprise and spending the better part of a year with them on the run trying to outwit Nilfgaard on the path to Kaer Morhen. Then, when they finally made it to the fortress, it was only to spend the next years cooped up with a pack of Witchers, one of whom was her _ex_ —

Well, it wasn’t all bad, she supposed. She had gotten what she wanted, in the end: a daughter. Ciri was a bright spot in all of this, and once Yennefer’s connection to her chaos was good and healed, she spent the next years teaching the princess everything she could about her power. She taught the girl in a way she always wished she’d been taught herself; with love and understanding. The opportunity to give this to Ciri, a girl she was beginning to see as her own daughter, was healing something Yennefer had never cared to assess was broken.

So sure, these past few years weren’t all bad, but that didn’t mean that the current circumstances, the utter sense of déjà vu she was feeling at the moment, wasn’t nauseating.

Because, here she was again. Saving the damned bard at Geralt’s behest.

It had been a week since she and Eskel had gone into the nearest town for provisions, heavily cloaked in glamours of all sorts to keep people’s eyes off of them, when they overheard a conversation in the markets. Something about a famous bard, who sang tales about a Witcher no less, being captured by Nilfgaard. 

There weren’t many who fit that description to begin with, but Eskel’s gaze hardened when the vendor finally said, “Yes, it was that bard who used to pass through here some winters ago. Jaskier was his name.”

Nilfgaard would never find Kaer Morhen. They had yet to move this far north, and even if they had, Vesemir and Yennefer’s combined efforts ensured that the Witcher ruins were elusive to even the best trackers.

It seemed that Nilfgaard was now switching tactics—rather than search for Geralt and Ciri, they would draw them out with Jaskier as bait. 

When she and Eskel returned to the keep, a plan was set in motion. They spent most of the week trying to figure out the exact location of the bard. The whole process was quickened by Geralt who, once through the wall of his own panic, retrieved an old trinket of the bard’s to track him with.

“A handkerchief, Geralt?” Yennefer had raised an eyebrow in amusement, “how splendidly romantic.”

Geralt got as close to blushing as she’d ever seen him, “He forgot it with Roach’s pack when we… parted, on the mountain. I intended on giving it back to him when we saw each other next, but—” a dark storm passed over the Witcher’s features

Yennefer didn’t feel like teasing after that.

It was strange, her relationship with Geralt. There was nothing for them romantically anymore, that much was clear, but whatever malice she held towards him for the djinn seemed to dissipate as the war went on. In the end, what was done could not be undone, and she couldn’t ignore that if it weren’t for the djinn, she would not have Ciri.

She and Geralt still cared for one another, but they would not be anything more than friends. Yennefer supposed that although she felt strange being back to this point, so similar to the scenario that started it all, she wasn’t as reluctant to help save the bard as she once had been. He was important to Geralt, regardless of what happened on that damned dragon hunt, and that was reason enough to stick her neck out. Perhaps her nausea was more a symptom of realizing her own worry for the bard. As annoying as he was, she didn’t wish him harmed. 

The handkerchief, a blue silky thing with embroidered flourishes, was clutched in Yennefer’s hands. It was the crux of their rescue plans—what would allow the sorceress to pinpoint Jaskier’s exact location, like red tack on a map, and portal there directly. Her and Geralt would have to make quick and quiet work of securing the bard before portalling back to the keep.

There was no time to worry or to overthink.

Yennefer stood in her room as midnight approached, eyes closed, hands clutching at the silk square when she heard someone coming down the hall.

“It’s time.” she said, eyes still closed, “If we wait any longer we risk them moving and delaying us further.” When she looked up, Geralt’s face was stoney and pinched in the dim sconce light. Yennefer wished she didn’t know him as well as she does, wished she couldn’t sense the depth of his worry.

Geralt hummed and nodded, and without another word Yennefer opened up a portal to the prisoner tent in a Nilfgaard camp. What the pair found on the other end was… distressing to say the least. The interior of the tent was, thankfully, left unguarded at this time of night, but this meant that it was dark, and only the ghoulish lights from the exterior encampment penetrated the fabric walls. The cold blue air could only do so much, though, to soften the harsh reality of the circumstance. Upon seeing the bard in the flesh, it became suddenly clear that he had been in Nilfgaard's clutches for far more than the week it had taken to find him. 

Yennefer’s tracking magic had been of a covert variety, allowing her to see Jaskier only as a set of coordinates, but not to actually _see_ him.

She and Geralt had prepared for the likelihood that the bard might have come to some harm while in Nilfgaard’s hands, or so they thought. Yennefer felt her stomach turn at the gruesome picture Jaskier made.

His hands and feet were bound behind him, and he lay curled up on his side. He wore nothing aside from his small clothes, making the scabbed-over wounds on his back stark against his too-pale skin. His face was almost unrecognizable, mottled and swollen with bruises that trailed down his chest and arms.

He was in a sorry state, but the worst of it was an ugly burn over his hip. In a flash of recognition, Yennefer realized it was not a normal burn, but a wound fashioned into the shape of a knot: a brand.

Jaskier had been branded.

It seemed that Geralt must have been having a similar recognition, as her companion choked on a horrible little gasp.

 _Right then_ , Yennefer thought, _time to get to work Witcher_. 

As soon as Geralt’s hand made contact with Jaskier’s shoulder, the bard jerked awake like a threatened ally cat. All of the hairs on his arm stood up in panic, but when his eyes met Geralt’s, whatever fight he’d geared up for left his body like a flood.

“Geralt” he exhaled with such relief it made Yennefer flinch.

Geralt wordlessly made quick work of the rope that tied his hands and feet before gathering Jaskier in his arms.

“Alright,” Yennefer began taking a stance to summon an exit portal, “lets get out of—”

“Wait!” Jaskier croaked, barely loud enough for the pair to hear, “please,” he begged.

“What is it, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, finding his voice but just barely.

The bard’s eyes trailed over the Witcher’s shoulder and passed the sorceress to land on the other side of the tent, where a second body that had gone unnoticed lay unconscious and bound.

Yennefer moved to kneel by this stranger’s side. It was a woman, with cropped golden hair, similarly stripped to her smalls. Wounds that mirrored Jaskier’s mapped over the planes of her exposed skin. This seemed to include a matching brand above the woman's hip. Yennefer grasped her limp hand and found a weak pulse below the thin skin of her wrist, which was pink and raw from the bindings. The sorceress turned her head over her shoulder to look back at the bard.

“Priscilla.” He gasped as an answer to the unspoken question, “Friend.” was all he could manage. His eyes were glossy and pleading. 

“Fuck.” Yennefer cursed as she turned back to make quick work of the woman’s binds herself. She lifted the stranger over her shoulder as gently as she could before looking around the tent once more to be sure there weren’t any other of the bard’s friends lying about unconscious.

Once she was satisfied there were, in fact, _not_ , she shot Geralt a look. He nodded silently back, and that was all the queue she needed to open up their second portal and get them the fuck out of Nilfgaard’s camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Share your thoughts in the comment section if you have any! Not 100% sure how long this will be so let me know what you think :)
> 
> Come find me over @Priscilladyke over on Tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four bodies fall through a portal and into the kitchens of Kaer Morhen.

The path that destiny would forge after those four bodies fell through a portal and into the kitchens of Kaer Morhen could not have been predicted unless one was a powerful seer. Unfortunately, the four bodies belonged to a bard, his mysterious friend, a Witcher, and a powerful sorceress: a group who would make the perfect set-up for a joke, but not exactly one well suited for future-telling.

Even if they could know what was to come, there were other matters more urgently pressing. For example, Jaskier was now as unconscious as his friend— _Priscilla_ , Yennefer reminded herself, and both were in equal need of healing.

“We’ll take them to the old Master’s chambers,” Yennefer addressed Geralt as she readjusted the woman in her arms, “the bed is the largest, and it will be easier to work on them both if they are kept together.”

Geralt nodded his agreement before swiftly making his way to that room, Yennefer followed close behind.

As they approached the Master’s chamber, they found Eskel and Vesemir waiting in the hall.

Yennefer had always deemed watching the wolves work together to be a fascinating display. They moved in near choreographed fluidity, like they could sense each other’s bodies’ intensions before they themselves even knew where they were going or what they needed, always in complete silence save for a few grunts here and there

In times like these, Yennefer wondered if they truly did possess such a sense—some affectation of their mutations, like a hive mind or pack sensibility.

The three Witchers moved into and around the room in their usual dance: Eskel taking Priscilla from Yennefer, much to her shoulder’s relief, then placing her down onto the bed opposite where Geralt was positioning Jaskier. Vesemir carried in a crate of medical supplies, and the four got to work.

Once Yennefer had assessed that luckily nothing needed magical healing, the likes of which she didn’t have the energy for after those two consecutive portals, she conducted the wolves on which injuries to attend to first.

Their two backs were absolute messes. The candlelight of the room was like a blazing sun compared to the cool darkness of the tent, and in its warmth the devastating nature of the injuries was provided perfect clarity.

Whip marks with uneven scabbing crossed over their backs, the skin around them flush with the possibility of infection. On Vesemir’s lead, the wolves applied a salve and clean bandages to them, working with a deftness and precision that one who didn’t know better would not expect from such sturdy stock.

A dislocated shoulder was set, a broken finger splinted, a rosehip and sweet nettle oil anointed their bruises. 

The burns were a strange thing, as ugly as they were, they were almost fully healed. The speed of it Yennefer could not account for, which would be troubling if she weren’t so thoroughly drained.

When all was said and done, the bard would live, as would his friend, and that was enough for now.

As she sat in the corner of the chamber keeping faint watch over the wolves, she would steal glances at Geralt. His silence was not unnatural, but the pinch of his brow and tight line of his lip betrayed his distress. His jaw was wound so tight Yennefer swore he might hurt himself in his efforts to heal Jaskier. When she spied his hand reach out to brush a too-long lock of hair from the bard’s forehead, she felt a bit like an intruder. A slight embarrassed flush rose on her cheeks, and she averted her gaze, moving to assess this.. Priscilla instead.

‘Friend,’ was all Jaskier had said, and it was more than enough to bring her here. Although, Yennefer wasn’t quite sure she would have done anything differently, unless the bard had said ‘enemy’ or ‘bitch.’ She knew she wouldn’t have left this woman to Nilfgaard, and felt a bit foolish that they almost had, even if by accident. There was more than enough room in their ruins for one more. Besides, one less card in Nilfgaard's deck.

Priscilla was just shy of Yennefer’s height, and even though she was a bit sickly at the moment, the woman’s skin held a warm gold tone.

Her straw-colored hair was cropped in a way that seemed completely unintentional, as if someone had taken a rusted blade to the lot of it and lopped it off in one go. Yennefer considered how this probably wasn’t too far from the truth, and she felt her face get hot with rage on Priscilla’s behalf. How beautiful her hair must have been for her captors to feel this humiliation necessary. How it must have curved so gracefully around her round cheek, her sharp jaw. 

When the sorceress’ eyes caught on the brand on the woman’s hip once more, she pushed past her anger to scrutinize its form.

A knot about the size of a fist was the obvious shape, like something a sailor might learn to keep the sails of their ship up. Its contours were a deep pink, but the scar itself was rippled and white. The healing suggested it might have been the first thing done to them, and done to them both at the same time no less, which meant they’d very well been captured together.

Before Yennefer could allow herself to think more creatively about what the term ‘friend’ truly meant, Vesemir’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“It’s late,” the old Witcher said, “or, early I suppose, and there’s not much more to be done here.” He turned to look pointedly at Geralt, “Everyone get some rest.”

“I’m going to stay here.” Geralt replied, defiant, arms crossed over his puffed-out chest.

“You don’t scare me like that, pup, and there’s nothing left for you to do now. The bard will be asleep far longer than you will.” Vesemir’s hard tone softened. “Go, get some rest. I sent Lambert to bed for the purpose that he can watch Ciri when she wakes, keep her well occupied, and you’ll be free to fret then.”

Geralt looked like he was about to argue, but Eskel cut him off.

“Look Geralt, you’re no good to him if you’re too exhausted to keep your head up.” Eskel’s tone was light but his expression left little room for argument.

Geralt looked to Yennefer for one last desperate attempt to get his way but was met with a pointedly arched brow. Sagging his shoulders in a rather pitiful display, Geralt made his way out of the room with a lingering gaze at the bed before he disappeared into the hall.

“To bed with all of us I think.” Yennefer said as she pushed herself out of the seat on which she’d been perching. As Eskel and Vesemir shuffled off to their own rooms, the sorceress took final stock of their patients. She moved to Jaskier’s body and with a hand over his hairline, and the fuzzy warmth of chaos at her fingertips, she sunk the bard into a healing sleep assuring he would have a restful night. A peaceful look washed over his features, and the sight brought a sleepy sort of smile to Yennefer’s lips.

She made her way over to the other side of the bed to do the same for Priscilla, but her hand stalled as she heard a sharp gasp from the woman below her. Looking down, the sorceress’ gaze met with another.

Eyes the color of an ocean rocked by a storm bore up at her, cloudy with confusion and fear.

“What—” Priscilla tried to speak, but most of the sound was caught in her throat.

Yennefer tried to put on her most reassuring expression, relaxing her face, allowing more warmth light her eyes.

“Shh,” she soothed, placing a comforting hand to the other woman’s shoulder, “you’re safe.”

Before the blonde woman could respond, Yennefer held her hands above her hairline and placed her into a healing sleep.

When Priscilla’s eyes shut and her face took on a similar look of calm that Jaskier’s had, the toll of these last acts of magic finally caught up with the sorceress.

Feeling exhaustion pulling at her mind, Yennefer took her leave.

Once back in her own rooms, sleep claimed her rather quickly. But, before it could, while her head sunk into her plush goose-feather pillow, she couldn’t help but think about those eyes.

How haunting they’d been, even in their muddled confusion, how piercing—a blue with a depth she’d never seen before. 

It was a rarity as a sorceress, having been alive for so long, to still find new things in this world. She was not sure if such a thing inspired disquiet or if it was a small comfort.

To be humbled by a pair of eyes… how strange indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I have a general trajectory for this story now, but your comments have been so encouraging so keep them coming! 
> 
> The next chapter will be from Jaskier's perspective...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wakes and finds he's still dreaming.

When Jaskier finally roused from his healing sleep, wakefulness still alluded him. Even with his eyes open, cognitive recognition felt slippery at best. His head felt too heavy for his thoughts, and his eyes lost their ability to focus. It was as if he hadn’t stopped dreaming.

For surely, this must be a dream.

He was in a bed, which wasn’t right, because last he remembered he was on the ground of a Nilfgaard camp. And, it seemed, not just any bed, but a bed he recognized to be somewhere in Kaer Morhen. That wasn’t right either, for it’d been years since his last visit to the Witcher keep.

A strange dream to have, but he supposed the mind clung to such comforts at its most desperate.

Jaskier stared up at the ceiling of the room his mind had conjured, eyes flicking between the surprisingly ornate stones and the patch-work repairs done in spots where it’d begun to crumble. The bard remembers a poem he wrote about the Witcher fortress during one of his first handful of visits. He’d written about a once grand keep reduced to ruin, its cracks filled by loving hands to become, if not the fortress it had been in its height, a home with a hearth for winter. The bard stared so intensely at the ceiling, the shape of it lost meaning, and the longer he stared the more fluid his state of conciousness became. 

He was a breath away from sinking back into the dark shroud of sleep, when suddenly the door opened. Jaskier felt as if he’d been dropped in a vat of ice water.

The pair who’d entered and their white and raven hair, their gold and violet eyes, were so vivid in their likeness it made the bard shiver. The immediacy of the recognition rung all over his body in waves. The heaviness he’d felt receded, and in its place was a rush of memory.

Weeks of pain and then suddenly Geralt. Yennefer and then a portal. Blackness.

He reasoned that he must not have stayed conscious long enough to know where the portal lead, but if he was right, they were somewhere in Kaer Morhen. That… actually made quite a bit of sense.

This was no dream, then, not in the traditional sense. It would be to a dream only what the past month had been to a nightmare. 

Jaskier suddenly registered the feeling of a foot pressed against his shin, and when he turned to his right, a tide of relief washed over him at the sight of Priscilla safe and sleeping soundly next to him.

“Jaskier.” Geralt breathed as he rounded the bed to kneel beside the bard. Jaskier was, impressively, out of words for once.

“Geralt.” He managed, eyes bright and round in their surprise. He stared at the Witcher, scanned over the features of a man who he’d not seen in years, but whose face he knew better than his own.

“Bard.” Yennefer sniffed as she too walked into the room. Jaskier’s head swiveled to address her.

“Sorceress.” He replied, although with not quite as much venom as he’d usually parry with. He wasn’t sure if that were due to his current lethargy or if it were, in fact, because he didn’t care to be antagonistic toward her. In his years away from Geralt he begrudgingly realized that it was not Yennefer he was mad at. Geralt, maybe, or even himself, but Yennefer had never done more than gain the favor of the man he loved. In their distance, the poet within could not fault her for that.

Well, there was the whole incident with the djinn, which would not rank among the best first impressions he’d received, but as the years passed he no longer felt the energy necessary to hold on to that particular grudge. Half a life gone and he really could not be bothered. 

“I need to check you over bard.” Yennefer said firmly, pausing before adding, “if that’s alright.”

Jaskier nodded wordlessly.

“You’re in Kaer Morhen.” Geralt explained sheepishly as he helped maneuver Jaskier to a sitting position. The bard was pleasantly surprised to find his back, while sore, was no longer in agony.

“Hmm.” Jaskier replied, looking over the unique stone of the walls, “I thought so.”

An awkward silence fell over the pair before Yennefer decided she’d had enough and cleared her throat.

“Alright,” she said as she sat on the edge of the bed and raised her hands, “this might be uncomfortable.”

No warning could have prepared him for the sensation. It wasn’t pain, or even truly discomfort, but it felt stranger than anything he’d experienced before. He could feel the prickling heat of Yennefer’s chaos under his own skin. It was like a phantom touch--like experiencing a caress only through memory. Weird.

A chill ran down his back at the feeling of it, and Geralt must have sensed his reaction as he then proceeded to grasp his good hand and cage it in his own. 

A small blush began to rise up the bard’s neck before he willed it away. The way things were left with Geralt… no matter how glad Jaskier was to see the Witcher again, there was much that needed to be discussed before he could allow himself even this simple pleasure. To take comfort in him now felt false.

“Well,” Yennefer cut off his internal monologuing and lowered her hands, “that sleep seemed to have done you good. Your finger will take a bit longer to heal still. When we found you it wasn’t just broken but.. shattered.”

If Jaskier didn’t know better he would swear he could hear concern in the sorceress’ voice. He would not hold onto such hope.

“Yes,” he muttered, averting his gaze from either her or Geralt, favoring his lap, “I do believe an incident with a soldier’s boot might account for that.”

Jaskier began picking at the linens in his lap, and Geralt absolutely _seethed_. Yennefer for her part was not too far off herself.

A long silence drew out within the walls of the Master’s chambers, tension as thick as a drowners bog settled between them. Jaskier’s face grew hot with embarrassment. He was a grown man and yet he felt so much like a little boy who’d broken his arm falling out of a tree, doing something foolish. Lying in this bed, with a Witcher and a sorceress fretting after him, tucked under the duvet like a sausage roll, it was all a bit ridiculous. If it were meant to make him feel better, it was truly missing the mark.

Like a knight in the tales of old, the bard’s savior from this awkwardness came in the form of rustling under the sheets.

Priscilla, who had until this point been dead to the world, teetering on the edge between peacefully and creepily still, twitched awake.

Priscilla’s eyes closed tighter as she seemingly braced herself for the Nilfgaard camp that had become her and Jaskier’s reality for a month, but having assessed that she was no longer bare against the dirt floor of the tent, cracked a single, cautious eye open. 

When her gaze landed on Jaskier, her other eye opened as well.

“Jask?” She asked wetly, tears of confusion and grief welling in her eyes, but did not fall.

“It’s me.” He nodded, reaching out to reassure her with touch, but faltering before his hand could land on her shoulder. “You’re safe.” He emphasized. 

“Where,” she sniffed not totally convinced, “where are we?” she craned her neck and looked around the room and suddenly noticed that they weren’t alone. Priscilla’s wide eyes glazed over Geralt, then flicked over to where Yennefer stood.

The blonde woman’s gaze did not leave the sorceress, even when Jaskier answered, “We’re in Kaer Morhen, love. The Witcher fortress in the mountains.

She registered her friend’s answers, if not the way Geralt flinched at the word ‘love,’ but she could not turn her eyes away from the sorceress. Before she could make it too weird, she tried to sit up as Jaskier had, but the instant there was weight on her arm she hissed in pain.

“Wait,” Yennefer said as she made her way to Priscilla’s side to help, placing a firm hand under her back for leverage, “your shoulder was dislocated. It’s since been returned to the correct place, but it will still be sore for a bit.”

When the sorceress finally had Priscilla in a sitting position, their faces were mere breaths away. The blonde woman looked up into violet eyes and said with surprising clarity;

“I remember you.” A shy grin took hold of Yennefer’s features for a whole moment before it wavered.

“Yes, well,” she cleared her throat and leaned away from the bed, “I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg, and this,” she waved over to the Witcher opposite her, “is Geralt of Rivia. We were here patching you up last night and came to see how you were fairing this morning. The healing sleep I’d put you both in was due to release when we arrived.”

“They saved us from Nilfgaard.” Jaskier added, and Priscilla turned to him. She held his gaze for a moment, searching his face for doubt or deceit. She found none. 

“So, we really are safe?” She asked, a wet laugh on her lips, “It’s over? Truly?”

Rather than answer with words, Jaskier carefully made work of gathering Priscilla in his arms. For the weeks that the two shared their tent, the bard could not remember a single moment where they’d been allowed the comfort of the other’s touch. It was so isolating, especially for such a tactile man, to not be given that. Jaskier couldn’t quite remember if there were a moment that the two of them weren’t bound in some manner or other.

To be deprived of that comfort for so long--of the ability _to_ comfort, even as the pair was forced to watch each other torn apart, made this one act feel like the sky was being split open. Like the heavens had finally parted after what felt like an endless storm, and the sun was shining its light on them once more. The warmth of the glow was dizzying.

With her head to his chest, Priscilla gripped Jaskier’s forearms to avoid his back, and in the security of their embrace; sobbed. The atmosphere in the room was soon thick with emotion, as two dear friends cried both tears of pain and relief.

The Nilfgaadians had isolated them from the kindness of touch so that all they had known was violence. To feel another’s warm body with tenderness, to feel the soft sheets beneath them, to feel the awkward gazes of the Witcher and sorceress on their backs; all of it grounded Jaskier in the reality that this truly was not a dream.

How grateful he was to be awake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The pace of the story has sort of been decided thus far by the need to locate what five years post TV canon even looks like for these characters. I'm sorry its going so slow but I hope you're liking it! The action is coming... eventually... 
> 
> Let me know how you're feeling in the comments! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @Priscilladyke :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small talk was never a skill the sorceress had ever deemed worthy of her time or energy.
> 
> or: Yennefer and Priscilla have an enlightening conversation.

“So you’re a troubadour?” Yennefer asked to fill the silence at the breakfast table.

Small talk was never a skill the sorceress had ever deemed worthy of her time or energy. Trivialities preyed upon the bored and the dull, and she never wanted to be either. However, there was something about this woman that Yennefer felt drawn to. She wasn’t filling the silence to be polite, but because she wanted to hear Priscilla talk, to tease something out of her that might explain her own fascination. Chalk it up to living with so many men the past few years, save for Ciri. There was something refreshing about having an _adult_ woman for company. In her time at Aretuza she longed for the world of men, but she was beginning to feel outnumbered. 

“The technical term would be a _trobairitz_ ,” Priscilla answered back as she slathered sour cherry preserves onto a slice of dark bread, “but yes, I’m a bard. That’s how Jaskier and I met.

As she took a sip of honey tea, Yennefer’s brow folded in confusion.

“Why the different title?” the sorceress asked. Priscilla snorted before waving the cherry-coated knife like the conductor of a band.

“Oh, you know, if men cannot distinguish themselves from us in skill, they’ll do it in name.” the blonde woman took a bite of bread and chewed around a satisfied smirk.

It had been a few days since the rescue of the two bards, and in that time Yennefer had not such an opportunity to speak with Priscilla alone. The buzz of settling her and Jaskier into their own rooms, once it was clear they were well enough to move about on their own, took up most of the first day. The next, after proper introductions were made to the whole keep, came with the heavy discussions of Nilfgaard’s capture and the hardships of their torture.

That was a hard thing to listen to. Yennefer was not unnaccustumed to cruelty or violence, but the bards’ tales made a current of chaos spark within her. She was keyed up the rest of the day and took to brewing all manners of potions to distract her.

From what the sorceress understood, it went something like this: Jaskier and Priscilla had been playing in a double act for a few years by the time the Nilgaardian’s found them. They were performing at an inn they thought was safe, but men cloaked in all black were waiting in their shadows. Later in their rooms after their set, Jaskier said he remembered being struck with a blow to the head and then he woke up bound in the tent. Priscilla didn’t remember even being struck, only that one moment she was standing in her room at the inn, and the next she was on the cold ground with a splitting headache.

Yennefer considered the details of their torture, while gruesome, to be rather unoriginal. Although she would never say as such, there was something predictable about the whole ordeal. Interrogation questions that were met with unsuitable answers or snark, ensured the captor a slap, a punch, a kick or two, a stomping with a boot, and at their most extreme: a whipping. The obvious outlier had been the brand, although contrary to Yennefer’s initial assumptions, those were given last. This made their swift healing even more troublesome, as neither Jaskier nor Priscilla remembered ever seeing a mage or magic user of any kind. There was not a trace of chaos on the wounds either, which was unsettling. It seemed Nilfgaard had given the sorceress a puzzle she was none too thrilled to unravel.

In the midst of all the heaviness, there really wasn’t a moment where the two women had found themselves alone or in lighter spirits. Until this morning, that is.

Having spent the last few days doting on Jaskier and shirking his responsibilities, Geralt was coralled into morning sparring practice with the other Witchers and Ciri, who had developed quite a bit of skill in the past few years. Enough to best one of the wolves from time to time and plenty to keep up.

Jaskier went along to watch, claiming it had been a favorite pastime of his previous visits and had dearly missed the _views_ the mountain provided. 

The early start time of their exercise left Yennefer and Priscilla as the sole residents of the breakfast table, and an opportunity to indulge their mutual curiosity.

“So you’re a sorceress?” Priscilla asked as she reached for the butter.

“Yes.” Yennefer replied.

“I’ve never met a sorceress before.” Priscilla added.

Yennefer grinned, “Well, I’ve never met a bard who was not an absolute cock before.” The smirk slid awkwardly off her face as she realized the jest might not be taken so lightly. She was about to amend her statement when a musical laugh rung out across from her.

What a beautiful sound.

“I’m quite sure you haven’t! Cocks, the lot of us.” The blonde woman smiled brightly, baring her teeth in a feral display, “Well,” she amended, “If Jaskier’s a cock, he’s a cock with a heart of gold.”

Yennefer snorted at the assessment before taking a lingering sip of her tea.

“So,” she breeched, “you and Jaskier…” 

It wasn’t much of a question but the meaning was plain. _Are you and Jaskier together? He called you love, are you his?_

“Me and Jaskier?” Priscilla parroted back, confusion drawing her features until they relaxed in understanding, “Oh!” she exclaimed, “No.”

“No?” Yennefer pressed.

“No, we are not… it’s not like that.”

“Huh,” Yennefer considered what that meant, “Are you not susceptible to his _charms_?” she teased.

“You could say that.” Priscilla looked down to her plate, picking up a dried plum between her fore and middle fingers, “I love him dearly, and I do find him charming, but not in the way most women do.”

“And what kind of man would charm you?”

“A woman.” 

Yennefer was surprised by that but not entirely taken aback. She watched silently as Priscilla casually plucked the plum she’d been toying with into her mouth.

“Well, we are short in stock of those around here, I’m afraid.” Yennefer tried to jest but felt it awkward on her tongue.

“That’s quite alright,” Priscilla assured with a warm smile, “I’m in no dire need of one.” She picked up another plum, “I know you’re not fond of each other, you and Jaskier. He and I are very close, and he has, in the past, said some unflattering things on your behalf. I am lead to believe it was mutual.”

Yennefer bowed her head, “We have been known to exchange the occasional barb, yes.”

Priscilla nodded. Her appraising gaze turned soft.

“I want you to know,” the blonde woman commented, “that I am my own person, and if you’d like I’d be glad to be your friend.”

Yennefer felt her lips quirk up despite herself, “I would like that.”

Priscilla smiled.

“I don’t harbor him ill will, for the record," claimed the sorceress, "I don’t think I truly ever did.” 

“For the record,” the other woman replied, “I don’t believe he ever did either.”

At that, Yennefer was silent. How could she respond? The bard had shown her nothing but contempt on the few occasions their paths crossed, and she believe she’d heard him mutter some idle curse under his breath a time or two; that she might fall off a mountain or be kicked by a mule. Yennefer was quite sure she hadn’t done anything to truly warrant such sentiment, but she found the bard such a nuisance that she would not grant him the over-analyzation of his words or the satisfaction of her hurt feelings. Regardless, his regard has always felt transparent in his distaste of her, and so she threw back as good as she got—better even.

What might it mean if her assumptions were wrong?

Lost in her thoughts, Yennefer didn’t notice Priscilla stand. Suddenly the blonde woman was above her.

“Here,” she said, placing her plate of dried plums in front of the sorceress, “I’m done with these, but good fruit shouldn’t go to waste.”

Yennefer stared dumbly down at the handful of morsels on the plate before looking back up to woman above her. She caught Priscilla’s gaze, and was struck once more by the color of her eyes. For a woman with a violet gaze of her own, surrounded constantly by the gilded irises of wolves, she was perplexedly struck by the blue of Priscilla’s.

“Thank you.” She replied, looking down to the table before she could be pulled in further by their tide.

“Anytime.” Priscilla smiled before sauntering out of the kitchen.

Yennefer stared intently at the dried fruit. A kindness, surely, or a practicality to avoid waste

She took a plum into her mouth and hummed around its sweetness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas.. is it gay to share plums with a girl and you are also a girl? 
> 
> I've been referring to this chapter as "plum erotica" to myself. They're flirting, your honor. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments! 
> 
> Check me out on tumblr @Priscilladyke


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier was getting too old not to do what pleased him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussions of death.

Jaskier was getting old.

Well that’s a bit dramatic, but he wasn’t getting any younger, that’s for sure. At forty-six, he was no spring chicken. His father was much younger than he, by the time his youngest sister was born, and his mother had died by forty-five. He remembered being a child at her funeral and thinking how terribly old she’d been with wrinkles by her eyes and nose. Now that he’d outlived her by a whole year, he knew she’d not truly been old at all, rather young in fact.

No, he did not fear he would die of natural causes any time soon—although recent events proved _unnatural_ causes were still on the table. His mother had simply gotten sick, as mother's sometimes did. Jaskier often wondered what would have become of her if she hadn't. She'd had so much life left that she wasn’t able to claim. So did he.

Which is why it made little sense for him to be perched up on the training ground battlements, spiraling about how old he’d become.

The last time he’d seen Yennefer, the sorceress had made a snide remark about his crows’ feet. He’d been rather self-conscious about them until her comment, and then spite fueled a new light to see them in.

They were not only a sign of his slipping youth, but badges well-earned from a life well-lived. The middle-aged aristocrats he’d grown up around would spend years perfecting their mild environments to maintain the illusion of eternal youth. Jaskier had seen women trade heavy coin purses for creams made of crushed pearl, and would watch as they’d spend even more in their efforts to avoid the sun. They’d see their families to ruin to look as smooth and pale as the cups that served their morning teas. 

Jaskier looked like he’d _done_ something in his life, and he was beginning to appreciate that.

The sun was dipping low behind the mountains, and with any luck it would soon be time for supper. Vesemir was cooking tonight, which meant dinner would be hearty. Even after a week in the keep, Jaskier felt each meal a blessing. Having lived on slop for a month, even the most bland and grey stew felt like a royal feast.

Jaskier stared out at the horizon, which was starting to turn pink at its fringes. If these were normal circumstances, he’d gaze upon such beauty with his lute in hand and would compose under remaining light until the mountain crests snuffed it out. But, he had no lute here; his old one probably sold by his captors for coin or altogether destroyed. Even if he did manage to materialize an instrument, his still-shattered finger would get in the way of his playing. 

Before the bard’s thoughts could spiral in a different direction, he heard approaching footfall on the training ground’s grass behind him.

“Geralt.” Jaskier said without turning. The footfalls slowed to a stop beside him.

“Jaskier.” Geralt responded, “How did you know it was me?”

A soft smile turned up the corners of the bard’s lips.

“I listened to you walk in those boots for twenty years,” Jaskier gave Geralt a quick glance, “I know the sound of your gait, Witcher.”

“Hmm.” Geralt replied, looking out at the view to mirror his once travel companion. 

“So, is supper ready?” Jaskier asked.

“Soon,” Geralt confirmed, “I’ve come to fetch you.”

“Excellent!” Jaskier exclaimed, carefully swinging off the ledge of the battlement. He stood in front of Geralt, regarding the other man with a smile, “Shall we?” he asked.

Geralt hummed his agreement, but as the bard turned to make his way inside, the Witcher caught his arm. 

“Wait!” Geralt exclaimed, dropping Jaskier’s arm at the alarmed expression on his face, “Uh, sorry, I just—” he let out a defeated sigh.

“Yes?” Jaskier needled him, wide eyes gone from shocked to curious. Geralt swallowed thickly.

“I was too late.” the Witcher finally said, and Jaskier felt it like a punch to the gut. It was often like this with Geralt, he’d speak in grunts for days and then lay you out flat with a single sentence.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, “we’ve been over this. I’m fine. Priscilla’s fine. You rescued us in time, we’re—”

“No.” the Witcher shook his head, “No, not—” he caught on his own tongue. Pausing he took a breath and, finding his words once more, he held firmly to them.

“I’m not talking about Nilfgaard.” Geralt said.

“Well then what—”

“I’m talking,” the Witcher cut the bard off, needing his thoughts to get out before they slipped away again, “about the mountain.”

Jaskier was rendered silent for a second time that week, by the same man. He'd been waiting for this conversation, and had begun to think the Witcher would never bring it up. 

“I was too late.” Geralt repeated, looking down at his boots.

“Too late for what?” the bard asked softly.

Geralt sighed and looked off towards where the sun had now pushed past the horizon.

“Geralt?" Jaskier pressed

“What I said to you on the mountain, I didn’t mean it." The words fell from the Witcher's mouth in a rush. "I was…" he paused, "hurt. I knew what happened with Yennefer was wrong, but I did feel strongly for her, I still do, and I thought I’d lost her forever. And then there was Borch in my ear weaving riddles about destiny, about _Ciri_. It was too much. I'd been so used to pretending not to embrace my feelings, and then they all fell down on me at once—”

Geralt sighed, “It’s no excuse.”

Jaskier had planned hundreds of versions of things to say when this conversation inevitably happened and a hundred more emotions he planned to feel, but suddenly his mind was empty of them. 

“It’s just,” Geralt continued, “I didn’t know how to handle all of it: Yen, Ciri, fucking Borch—so I threw them at you, as if you’d be able to hold them better than I .”

Geralt’s lip flattened into a tight line, “My words were cruel and unfair, and as soon as I turned my back to you I regretted them.”

Jaskier’s eyes shone at the admission. He wasn't stupid, he knew Geralt well enough to know what a struck nerve looked like. As wounding as the Witcher's words had been, after he'd had time for a good cry and a worse bender, Jaskier could only admit to himself that Geralt probably didn't truly believe them. But, he was ill prepared for the Witcher to up and say it all outright.

“I went to look for you the next day to say as much, but I couldn’t find you. I was—”

“Too late.” Jaskier finished for him, a sad smile on his face. Geralt nodded solemnly.

“I thought I might find you in a few weeks, maybe a month or two, like old times when we’d part and come together on the Path, but…” the Witcher shook his head, “Nilfgaard came for Cintra, then Sodden, and by the time I’d thought I was finished brushing shoulders with the war, I’d found Ciri. Been here with her even since.”

Jaskier nodded contemplatively. He’d always figured their paths hadn’t crossed because of the war, that somehow it was life’s way of giving Geralt his blessing and ridding him of the bard; a silver lining in the storm clouds. To know that Geralt had looked for him, for all the verse he’d written in his life, he could not put the feeling to words.

What was more was knowing that Geralt had found his true destiny after all. Ciri’s presence had been a wonder all the past week. When news reached the bard of Cintra’s fall, he’d heard whispers of the princess’ death and had mourned her—mourned what could have been if Geralt had gotten to her in time. He buried the image of a young child with fine gold hair, whose name day he'd performed at every year until Pavetta's untimely death. What joy to find Ciri nearly a woman grown. How bittersweet to find Geralt with a family of his own. 

“This is all to say,” the Witcher sighed, “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

Tears welled in the bard’s eyes. A silence fell between them, filled only by the sound of the early evening winds whipping through the practicing posts and the tall grass. If Geralt had succeeded in finding him after the dragon hunt, Jaskier would have raged at the Witcher. He would have planted his feet firmly down and given the other man a lashing. He would have buried his heartbreak and betrayal with vitriol. He would have been the unstoppable force to Geralt’s immoveable object, and like the tide to a boulder, crashed over him again and again. He would not have left the Witcher without being absolutely sure he knew the consequence of his cruel words. Twenty years may have been nothing to Geralt, but they were everything to Jaskier.

Now, six years past, Jaskier could only feel tired. He didn’t have the time to waste on angry words or baiting guilt. Here was Geralt with his heart as open as it could be while still beating in his chest, baring it for Jaskier, asking for his forgiveness. Fatherhood had changed him, it seemed. 

“You weren’t.” the bard finally said.

Geralt’s brows met in confusion, “I wasn’t?” He asked.

“Late.”

Geralt rumbled low and disbelieving, “How?”

Jaskier shrugged, “You didn’t find me after the mountain,” he explained, “more’s the pity. But you _did_ find me in the Nilfgaard camp. You saved me and my dear friend, and now we’re all here together. You were there when it really counted. It isn’t too late.”

Geralt’s face softened, “You forgive me?” he asked.

Jaskier smiled, “I forgive you.”

“How?”

The bard found the answer easily, “Because,” he said, “I’m getting too old not to do what pleases me.”

Geralt smiled—a rare and genuine thing. He knocked his arm against Jaskier’s, “You know,” he said, “you’re not _that_ old.”

Jaskier returned the knock to the Witcher’s arm and smirked, “Well, you’d think so wouldn’t you? We are all young to the eyes of the ancient.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes as the two made their way inside. The sun was nearly gone, and Vesemir would throw a fit if they were late.

Jaskier would not dare to hope for all that would please him, he was not so young and foolish. Even as he walked by the man's side, he could not hold on to the impossible. It was good to have him at all.

As the last rays of sun warmed their backs in their retreat, the shadows of their bodies merged into one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've thought a lot about how Geralt and Jaskier might reconcile their post-mountain feelings in the show. I think that what has really impacted how I've written it is this idea that the next time they meet will be after six YEARS! I think that Jaskier would be hurt, and angry, and definitely have the urge to yell, but I also think at the end of the day he's a human with a shorter life, and he might not feel like wasting any more time being mad. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on my interpretation! 
> 
> Next chapter we get to see Ciri!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Priscilla has a problem, and Ciri has a solution.

Ciri was silent as she stalked away from the library, her footfall lighter than air so as not to rouse Witcher ears.

Vesemir had fallen asleep during their lesson again, which was just as well, as she hadn’t finished the book on hybrid creatures he’d assigned. As soon as she was sure she was well enough away from his range of hearing, the Witcher-in-training returned to a normal gait. She’d set out down the hall towards her room, where her bed and a nap of her own happily awaited, when she heard a muffled cry.

Ciri stopped in her tracks.

She turned toward the source of the sound, determining it came from behind a door down the hall. Cautiously she walked closer, before stopping at the threshold. For a second, she doubted herself. Maybe she was hearing things. Stranger things had happened in the keep since the two bards had been rescued.

For one, she caught Geralt smiling a few nights ago, _actually smiling_ , over dinner that _Lambert_ of all people had prepared, and Lambert’s a terrible cook. She’d also been woken up a night or two to a muffled scream coming from one of the other rooms, not unlike what she’d just heard. Everyone in Kaer Morhen had nightmares, so that wasn’t what was concerning. Ciri had become accustomed to what the other Witchers, and even Yennefer, sounded like in the throws of such a terror. In the past nearly six years in this keep she’d developed the ability to recognize where the screams had come from, and by who.

However, these particular screams were new, and thus unsettling.

Ciri was about to chalk the cry she’d heard up to a strange draft or a ghost before another, softer sound of distress came from the other side of the door.

It was Priscilla’s room, she realized.

Knocking on the door Ciri called out, “Hello? May I come in?”

When this was met with no response, she cautiously turned the doorknob and pushed her way inside. She softly closed the door behind her, before turning to find what looked like an empty room.

“Hello?” she called again. The only answer was a sniff that came from the other side of the bed. One sniff followed another and another as slowly, the girl rounded the bed. She found the source of the noise in Priscilla, who was sat against the side of her bed with her knees hugged to her chest. Her face was flush and her eyes were red and puffy.

“Priscilla?” Ciri called, and the other woman flinched. She clearly hadn’t noticed her entrance.

“Oh!” Priscilla exclaimed wetly and with false cheer, “Ciri! I hadn’t-“ she sniffed rubbing harshly at her eyes, “I must not have heard you come in.” She smiled tightly up at the other, “For what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ciri liked Priscilla. She was nice to everyone, but she was quick in her wit, and could throw barbs with Lambert in a way that would make even Yennefer smile. She was bright in her demeanor, for the most part. So different, usually, to the woman on the floor now.

“Are you alright?” Ciri asked rather dumbly as she made way to sit next to Priscilla against the bed. 

Priscilla laughed wetly, “Yes I’m alright.” She took a deep breath to steady her voice, “I’m just being silly.”

“If it’s made you upset, it can’t be silly.” Ciri said, chin raised defiantly. No matter if she were raised in part by wolves, she was brought up to be a queen first and foremost.

Priscilla quirked a smile in response, “You’re right.” she amended, “its just—”

The bard cut herself off, finding the words too foolish to pass her lips, and a huff of hot air rushed past them instead. At her silence, however, Ciri simply looked intently back, an unwavering gaze that promised she would not leave until she knew what was the matter.

“My hair.” Priscilla muttered bitterly, giving in.

In truth, Ciri could not blame Priscilla for crying. Even when she’d been masquerading as a boy, she’d never had her hair cut that short, or so poorly for that matter. It stuck up in some places, falling in all different directions like an unruly mop. It wasn’t ugly, although Ciri didn’t think that Priscilla had the ability to look ugly, even if she were sheered like Eskel’s goat. It was just… messy, unkempt in a way that was ill suited for the bard. Ciri also considered that the circumstance in which it was cut probably didn’t help how Priscilla felt about it.

“Your hair.” Ciri nodded mournfully.

“I know it's vain and a touch shallow.” Priscilla admitted, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve, “I’ve tried not to mention it, or even think of, it all week. I’ve even been avoiding mirrors and all manner of reflective surfaces because there’s nothing I can do, but—" She trailed off. She swallowed thickly and reached up to fondle the broken ends by the nape of her neck.

“I went to steal a book from Eskel’s shelf while he was training.” She explained, “He offered me his romance section if I got too bored, and I caught a glimpse of myself in his vanity. Had a bit of a meltdown if I’m honest.” 

Ciri nodded sympathetically along to Priscilla’s tale of woe, “I wish I could help, but I’m shit with hair. Yen usually has to help me with mine.”

“Wait.” Ciri exclaimed in sudden realization, “We can ask Yen for help!”

“Oh,” Priscilla blushed, “I really wouldn’t want to trouble anyone.”

“Please!” Ciri swatted playfully at the other woman, “It would be no trouble at all! She should be finished in the greenhouse by now, let’s check if she’s in her room.”

The younger woman sprung up from where she’d been sitting and offered her hand to Priscilla, who took it sheepishly.

The walk to Yennefer’s room was quick, and this time Ciri did not hesitate to knock. She rapped wildly at the wood door.

“Yennefer!” she called, knocking more rapidly, “Yennefer are you in there?”

“Ciri,” Priscilla tried to cut in, “it’s alright. You don’t have to—”

“Yennefer!!” Ciri called again.

Suddenly the door swung open and a frazzled looking Yennefer stood before them in the threshold wearing naught but a loose silk dressing robe.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” the sorceress bellowed, “are you, perchance, on _fire_?” 

“No, it’s just that—”

“Are you in any way nearing death’s door?”

“ _No_ —”

“Then _why,_ ” Yennefer snapped, “are you causing such racket?”

Rather than try to speak for fear of being cut off again, Ciri took a step to her right to reveal the bard behind her.

“Priscilla,” Yennefer remarked in surprise, her voice softened as she took in her red-rimmed eyes, “is everything alright?”

“Ciri thought you might be able to help with my hair?” Priscilla replied sheepishly, her blush returning tenfold.

“Of course!” Yennefer said, opening the door wider to allow the other two women to follow into her room. “You came at a great time, actually. I just finished washing my own hair so I have bits out already.”

Ciri had only known Priscilla for a little over a week, but she’d never seen the woman so quiet or shy as she was now. The bard looked at Yennefer, and blushed.

“Are you sure it’s not any trouble?” Priscilla asked.

Yennefer smiled warmly, the stern woman from the threshold gone as quickly as she came.

“It’s no trouble.” She replied. “Come now,” she motioned for them to follow her to the vanity, “we can get this sorted.” 

At the vanity was a basin of water, and every tincture, soap, or oil anyone could ever have thought of, in rows of ornate bottles. Yennefer pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and set it so that the back faced the vanity and basin. Satisfied with the position of the chair, she went to her dresser and dug up a pair of shears and an elaborate silver comb with pearl teeth. Once the supplies were sufficiently gathered, the sorceress addressed the bard.

“Usually I help Ciri with her hair she's in the bath so that I don’t have to worry about her clothes getting wet.” Yennefer admitted. “If you want, you can just take your top off, if you’re comfortable with that of course.” 

If Ciri wasn’t mistaken, she thought she’d seen color rise to the sorceress’ cheeks.

“Oh,” Priscilla replied looking down at the loose chemise and trousers she’d taken from Jaskier’s old winter stores, “Um, no, that would be fine. Or, um, yes—I’m okay with that.” Before the bard could become more flustered she untied the lace at the top of her chemise and removed it. She covered her exposed breasts with her arms and walked over to the vanity. Priscilla sat in the chair Yennefer had brought over, while Ciri made herself comfortable on the edge of Yennefer’s bed.

As she watched the sorceress magically reheat the basin of water, and Priscilla’s neck flush with embarrassment, Ciri couldn’t fathom why everyone was being so awkward. They were all women—it wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. This was just a haircut, for gods' sake. 

When the water was sufficiently hot, Yennefer guided Priscilla’s head back so that her hair was submerged. She then wordlessly chose a bottle from her assortment, lathered her hands with the scented oil, before working her fingers through the short tresses from scalp to ends. As Yennefer’s hands raked through the blonde head, she stopped for a moment at Priscilla’s scalp, digging the tips of her fingers into the soft skin in circular motions.

A soft noise fell from the bard’s lips, so soft that Ciri almost couldn't hear it.

Yennefer’s gaze evaded Priscilla’s, staring intently at her hands working in the water. When she was satisfied the hair was sufficiently clean, the sorceress gently lifted the bard’s head out of the basin. With a towel, she dried the ends so that the hair was just damp but not soaked. She passed her comb through it to be sure there were no knots, and satisfied that it was smooth, replaced her comb with the shears.

As Yennefer cut the bard’s hair, Ciri watched her gaze, as she would occasionally let it fall from the task she was completing to look at Priscilla’s face. The younger woman supposed she was checking to make sure the bard was alright. She’d been wound quite tightly before.

The haircut did not take very long, which was to be expected. Priscilla’s hair was already short, it merely needed some evening out and a bit of shaping to look… intentional at least. When Yennefer had deemed it finished, the bard’s hair was only a few inches in length, but it curled around her heart-shaped cheeks in a way that suited them. A short fringe framed her forehead, layering out towards the side. It was true Yennefer was quite talented with all manner of blades, including shears.

“You look great!” Ciri commented from where she had quietly observed, “It suits your face, I think!”

Priscilla beamed under the praise, “Thank you Ciri.”

Yennefer smiled, but before Ciri could catch a glimpse of her soft gaze, she cleared her throat, “Yes, well,” she switched the shears back for the comb, “don’t sound too surprised, my dove, you came for my help for a reason, did you not?”

Ciri rolled her eyes which pulled a laugh from Priscilla.

Yennefer could not help the fondness she felt in that moment, before she began to comb through the freshly cut hair once more for posterity. Ciri thought it was a bit excessive and didn’t know why she was dragging out the process. 

As the pearl teeth of the instrument passed over her scalp, Priscilla made an effort to catch Yennefer’s gaze directly, for what felt like the first time since she’d taken off her chemise.

“Thank you.” The bard said sincerely. For a moment the two women stared at each other, hoping to convey some silent message.

Suddenly, the comb slipped through Yennefer’s grasp, and before she could react, nudged at Priscilla’s exposed side just above her hip.

The metallic clang of the tool against the stone of the floor was drowned out by a scream. Priscilla’s face suddenly contorted in pain. Ciri rushed over to the chair to help, but in picking up the instrument from the floor, could not account for such agony. The comb was neither heavy nor sharp enough to ensure much damage.

“Fuck!” Yennefer exclaimed, hand hovering over the spot where the comb had hit Priscilla’s skin.

That’s when Ciri saw it. Looking down to follow the sorceresses panicked gesture, she was met with a gruesome picture.

The brand above Priscilla’s hip had gone from a rippling white scar to pulsing red in a matter of seconds. What looked like steam billowed up from the wound in clouds.

 _No_ , Ciri realized in horror, _that’s smoke_. All she could do was drop the comb once more, grab Priscilla’s hand and squeeze, trying at least to offer her comfort as whatever the fuck was happening, happened. She looked across the bard’s head, and shot a wide-eyed expression at Yennefer, who was stroking Priscilla’s temple in a manner one might employ to calm a spooked mare. The look Ciri received back was one she’d never seen cross Yennefer’s features in all the time she’d known her, and it sent a chill down he spine.

It was a look of genuine fear, a fear that only came when one had sent their bucket down the well of knowledge and found it come up dry.

Yennefer was clueless, and that was more frightening still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were so caught up in the Gay Longing and Sapphic Yearning that you completely forgot about the brands didn't you? 
> 
> Yes, something is afoot, and you know its bad when even Yennefer doesn't understand it. Much in store in the coming chapters...
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @Priscilladyke


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three women call for an emergency meeting in the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: badly approximated Elder.

“No! Absolutely not!” Geralt bellowed.

“We need to know if it’s just Priscilla, or if it’s them both.” Yennefer argued.

The dining hall was buzzing with the crackling nerves of its occupants. Fear was a shark swimming in their tense waters, and at any moment someone moment someone might get their head bitten off.

The pain that Priscilla had felt when the comb touched her scarred flesh was excruciating, but it had quickly ebbed to a still-waning ache. The angry red knot had shifted back to its rippled white just as quickly, like forge-hot iron dipped in a bucket of water. After she'd felt sure that whatever had just happened had fully passed, Priscilla put her chemise back on, and the three women called for an emergency meeting in the dining hall. After the events with the comb had been relayed to all of Kaer Morhen’s residents, much to Priscilla’s quiet mortification, Eskel rushed off to find… something.

Priscilla couldn’t remember over all of the shouting. 

“Yennefer,” Geralt growled, “I won’t let you hurt him.

The sorceress rolled her eyes, “Don’t be a fool _Geralt_.” she bit back, “I don’t _want_ to hurt him. But, we need to figure out what’s going on and the first step in doing that is checking if Jaskier has the same reaction. However, as you can see,” Yennefer gestured to where Priscilla was seated, “ _she’s_ still very much intact.” 

Geralt was about to argue further when Jaskier cut him off.

“Priscilla, my darling,” he said ignoring the current squabble in favor of gripping her hand across the dining table, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Priscilla nodded, sinking deeper into her embarrassment as all eyes fell to her. “Well, obviously not quite fine,” she laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck with her other hand, “with all this magic-y bullshit apparently happening on my person without my knowledge, but I’m no longer in any pain.” She reassured.

Jaskier nodded in seeming acceptance of her response. He tilted his head up, “Alright then,” he addressed Yennefer, “let’s just get it over with.”

“Jask—” Geralt protested.

“It’s okay, Geralt.” Jaskier assured him, “Yennefer’s right, we need to know what’s going on, which means we need to do this. Priscilla says she’s no longer in pain and I’d rather be temporarily hurt knowing what the fuck this is than have it looming over all of us.”

Yennefer’s eyes widened at the bard’s willingness as much as his admittance that she was right. Geralt, however, still looked unconvinced.

“Jaskier is his own man,” Lambert cut in, “if he agrees to it, then that’s the end of the discussion.”

Ciri walked up to Geralt, who was winding himself up tighter by the second, and took his hand in hers. She gave it a reassuring squeeze, and a bit of the tension in his posture loosened. He sent a begrudging look to Yennefer and nodded his acceptance.

Yennefer nodded back before rounding the dining table to kneel by where Jaskier was seated.

“Bard,” she tried to sound firm, but her nerves made her voice slippery, “lift your shirt.” The sorceress lowered herself so that she was eye level with his abdomen. 

“Usually someone gets me well into my cups before they ask me that,” Jaskier tried to jest but the words shook as they left his mouth. Yennefer elected to ignore him for both their sakes. He did as he was told, lifting his shirt enough so that the knot-shaped burn above his hip was in full view of the room. The sorceress brandished the offending comb.

“Wait!” Cried Priscilla, and Yennefer stopped in her tracks. The blonde woman got up from her seat and made her way to Jaskier’s side opposite the sorceress. Jaskier looked up at her with a questioning expression, which Priscilla answered by taking hold of the hand closest to her in a firm supporting grip.

“Okay.” Priscilla nodded with a shuddering breath barely restrained.

Yennefer held the comb with the pearl teeth digging into her palm, and the silver edge facing outward. Before any more objections could be made, she brought the instrument to the marred flesh of the brand on the bard’s hip.

A deafening scream pierced the air.

Yennefer tried to remain unmoved by the sound as she watcher the white scar turn bright red. She removed the comb as soon as smoke began to plume out from the wound. It was a reaction identical to Priscilla’s.

Jaskier’s scream subsided into short pants, and Priscilla rubbed soothing circles over the back of his hand, brushed the hair from his eyes to quell the shock of his pain.

Yennefer took an assessing step back, and Geralt rushed into space she’d left by Jaskier’s side, Ciri no longer able to keep him at bay.

“Strange.” Vesemir muttered stepping next to the sorceress.

“It’s not magic,” Yennefer noted, “or, at least not chaos based. I would have sensed it by now if it were.”

“Silver, you said the comb was?” Vesemir asks.

“Yes,” the sorceress confirms, “the edge is cast silver.”

The old Witcher hummed, “Silver is harmful to creatures born from magic.”

Yennefer shook her head, “Fringilla must know I’m here, which means whatever magic was used was done so with the intention that I not be able to detect it.”

Vesemir nodded as he considered this. 

“I found it!” came a roar from down the hallway. Suddenly Eskel was barreling into the room though the arched entrance at top speed, a thick book with a leather bind tucked under his arm. He stopped before the group and held the book up like a prized kill.

“I found it.” He repeated, panting. 

“Well, fucking out with it, Eskel,” Lambert snarked, “what did you find?”

“While we were patching them up,” Eskel gestured to Jaskier and Priscilla, “I noticed the brands.” He explained, “They were kind of hard to miss. I thought it must be some kind of symbol, perhaps some clue as to who, exactly, their captors were. I mean we know it was Nilfgaard, but—”

Eskel hugged the book to his chest, “Usually,” he said, nose scrunched up in disgust, “brands are a marker of ownership.” His jaw tensed, “I thought I could discover what sick bastard was behind all of this by searching for that symbol. Maybe then we could—”

He sent a meaningful look to Jaskier, who smiled sadly and nodded back.

“But,” Eskel continued, shaking his head, “I couldn’t find anything that matched.

“My boy,” Vesemir interjected, “while this is entirely riveting, could you please get to your point?”

Eskel flushed and nodded, “I couldn’t find anything because I was looking in the wrong place. After hearing what happened to Priscilla, it clicked. This wasn’t a symbol of identification or ownership, it was the sigil for a spell.” He opened the volume in his hand to a dog-eared page and placed the book open on the table. Yennefer and Vesemir hunched over either of his shoulders, while the rest of the group huddled as close as they could. Eskel dropped one large finger onto the page, pointing to an etching identical to their brands: a double knot shape.

“ _Ess_ _En'leass_ ” Yennefer read out loud.

“ _To be tied_.” Jaskier, who was now as fine as Priscilla, translated the Elder. The furrow of his brow deepened, “to be tied to what?”

“To each other?” Priscilla asked.

“What sense would that make? They had you both trapped together anyways.” Lambert muttered. Geralt kicked him under the table and Yennefer shot him an icy glare.

“Geralt,” Yennefer said, flicking her eyes to the white-haired Witcher, “do you remember sensing any guards around us that night?”

“No,” he shook his head, “nobody was near the tent for a few yards. I couldn’t believe our luck.”

“What if it wasn’t luck?” the sorceress asked, the gears of her mind visibly turning as she spoke.

“What do you mean?” Geralt replied, “You think they _wanted_ us to rescue them?”

Yennefer thought for a moment. “Priscilla,” she broached, “the night we came for you, there were no guards in your tent at all. Were there ever?”

The blonde woman considered this, “Yes,” she nodded, “guards would come in to watch us while we ate, but usually it was the officers we dealt with.”

“But, none would watch over you at night?” the sorceress questioned.

“No.” Priscilla looked to Jaskier who shook his head in confirmation, “No, they would leave us to ourselves at night, especially towards the end.”

Yennefer nodded as she processed this, “I thought that we were lucky that night too,” She says to Geralt, “but, now I’m thinking that we did exactly what they wanted of us. They served Priscilla and Jaskier to us on a silver fucking platter because they wanted us to rescue them.”

Geralt shook his head, “I don’t understand. Why would they want that?”

“I think you’re right.” Jaskier said, wide-eyes glued to Yennefer’s, “At first it was interrogation, it seemed like they wanted me for information, and Priscilla was insurance that I’d cooperate. But as it went on, the torture felt more sadistic than utilitarian. Like it was clear to them we weren’t going to be spilling any beans. Like they were hurting us just for fun.”

A dark silence cast over the room at the mention of their torture.

“You thought that Jaskier was bait to capture you,” Ciri addressed Geralt, “but, the only reason Nilfgaard wants you is to get to me—” Ciri turned her gaze on Yennefer, “to get to me _here_.”

“We’ve eluded them so far because of Yennefer and Vesemir’s efforts.” Geralt reasoned. "Hmm." He thought aloud, “They couldn’t find us on their own, so they captured you,” he directed at Jaskier, eyes flashing, “to give them a map to Kaer Morhen or some insight on me that would aid them.” realization dawned on him like a shadow, “and, when that didn’t work either, they branded you with some spell." A strained sort of panic edged into his voice, "They let us bring you here ourselves.”

“Guys,” Lambert piped up, “I think I know what they’re tied to.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, “Yes, I think we all do.”

“Obviously,” Priscilla responded, “but, you should still say it out loud… for posterity.”

An amused look passed over the sorceresses features before it was eclipsed by stark severity, “You aren’t tied to each other,” she responded darkly, “you’re both likely tied to whoever cast the sigil. The brands are in essence a tracking spell.”

“Which means,” Eskel concluded darkly, “that Nilfgaard is coming.”

The hall went silent. The past years of solace at Kaer Morhen were coming to their end. The war had found them despite their efforts.

“This is a volume on ancient ritualistic magic.” Vesemir broke the silence, brushing his fingers over the book’s spine, “It was practiced by priests said to have been born from the earth itself, well before the mages learned to harness chaos.”

Yennefer nodded biting the edge of her thumb, “It’s as I said—Fringilla likely knows that I’m here and would scent the trace of her chaos like a starving hound.”

“Which means that she's banking on your ignorance.” Geralt offered

“Whatever attack they have planned,” Eskel added, “they'll be under the assumption that we won’t be prepared for it.”

“I never told them anything,” Jaskier assured, a solemn look in his eye, “they know nothing about Witchers or what you’re capable of.” he gave a wobbly smirk, “They’ll be going in blind.”

Geralt put a hand on the bard’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.

“If Nilfgaard forces were portalled to the edge of the mountains where our wards begin, how long would it take them to trek the summit and be on Kaer Morhen’s doorstep?” Yennefer asked.

“About two weeks, for someone with no knowledge of the path. They may have a destination, but certainly no knowledge of how to get there.” Vesemir reasoned.

“Three,” Lambert added with his wolfish grin, “if enough obstacles fell in their way.”

Eskel smirked, “Two weeks more to prepare, then.”

Geralt looked intently over to his child of surprise, who’d been silent where she sat, “Alright Ciri?” he asked.

Ciri was averting her gaze, staring intently at her her hands as she wrung them together. She looked up at Geralt, her green eyes shining.

“They’re doing this to get to me.” she replied.

Geralt sighed, “Ciri it’s not your—”

“It’s not my fault.” She finished for him, “I know it’s not my fault. It wasn’t my fault when I was a scared little girl and it isn’t my fault now. It’s their’s.” She spat with venom.

“Nilfgaard stole my childhood. They took away my home and the only family I’d known till we met.” Ciri’s voice grew fierce yet impossibly low, “I have spent the last half-a-decade in hiding from them, sealed within these walls or behind disguises.”

A strange sort of look broke out over her face. It was igniting.

“If they want to bring a battle to us,” Ciri declared, “then we will prepare for a battle.” It was as if Calanthe’s specter had passed through the young woman as she addressed the room. Ciri spoke with the posture and might of a Queen, “We’ll prepare to _win_ , and when we do, Nilfgaard will be nothing.” She looked over and locked her wolfish eyes with Yennefer’s, “We won’t have to hide anymore.”

It was a promise, but it was also a plea. 

Yennefer walked up to the young woman she considered her own daughter, and placing a hand on each of her shoulders, smiled a rare and brilliant thing. A tempestuous current of fierce support shuddered through the hall. The sorceress looked up to address the room, scanning its faces who shone in a united pride and agreement at what was to come next, before returning to the girl before her—for Ciri would always be that little girl in Yennefers eyes. 

“I’ll have to call for backup.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was very hard to write because it was so dialogue heavy, which is a bit of a departure from the sort of emotional/internal exposition we've had so far, but there was so much to cover!
> 
> Ok so, just to make sure y'all know what's going on: 
> 
> -The mysterious brands our bards incurred in their torture are essentially tracking spells so that Nilfgaard can finally get to Ciri.  
> -The magic that they come from is very ancient and more similar to the magic creatures possess rather than the harnessed chaos of the mages, which is why the brands react to silver and also why Yennefer could not sense the spell.  
> -Nilfgaard thinks this is going to be a surprise attack, which our rag-tag team of misfits will be using to their advantage. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think :)
> 
> UP NEXT: Yennefer's backup arrives at Kaer Morhen...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backup comes to Kaer Morhen.

Triss wasn’t sure what she expected when Yennefer summoned her for a battle with Nilfgaard. Maybe she envisioned Kaer Morhen would be the perfect picture of a battle camp, soldiers armed to the teeth, Amazonian women as tall as trees, with pulsing muscles and broad shoulders, a hoard of leather-clad Witchers with silver swords strapped to their backs, rippling biceps and—

No wait. Now she was just thinking about a pleasant dream she’d once had.

Well, whatever her expectations were, the sorry group she found upon her arrival at the keep certainly did not meet them. 

“What do you call four Witchers, two sorceresses, two bards, and a child?” Triss asked as she walked into the dining hall. She did not wait for a response before she replied, “A fucking joke.”

“Merigold.” Lambert snarled.

“Lambert.” She sniffed back.

“Triss!” Ciri exclaimed, barreling toward the older woman to catch her by the waist.

“Ciri,” the sorceress smiled as she wrapped her arms around the young woman, “you are looking lovelier by the moment!”

Ciri smiled shyly as she broke from the embrace.

“Triss.” Yennefer greeted as she walked up to the other sorceress, “I trust the journey wasn’t too rough?” She asked with a teasing grin.

The two women embraced, and Triss laughed as she said, “It’s good to see you Yen.

Yennefer pulled away, “Where are all your things?” she asked with a quirked brow.

“Well, I portalled with them straight to my usual room,” Triss responded with faux annoyance, “but you can imagine my distress when I found it already occupied.”

“Oh and I’m sure moving it to one of the many _other_ abandoned rooms was a true hardship.” Yennefer threw back with a roll of her eyes.

“Terribly so.” Triss said as she scruitinized her cuticles, “I didn’t break a sweat, of course, but I did come very close. It’s been a long time since I’ve exerted myself to that degree.”

I wicked smile bloomed on Yennefer’s face at the innuendo, “I’m afraid it might be longer still until you will again.”

“Ugh!” Ciri groaned, “I’m standing right _here_.”

Triss trilled with laughter, and Yennefer’s smile only grew in its mischief.

“It’s not funny!” Ciri insisted, “I fear I will never recover from _that_.”

“Never recover from what?” Geralt asked as he walked into the room with two bards in tow, “Hi Triss.” He placed his palm on her shoulder in greeting.

“Cirilla here has just reminded me of that night we opened the Beauclair vintage and tried to—"

Triss’ mouth was suddenly covered by a hand. “Stop it!” Ciri cried.

Geralt chuckled, “That was a good night.”

“Argh!” Ciri exclaimed, removing her palm from Triss’ mouth and stalking to the other side of the room. “I hate you all!” She called over her shoulder, knocking Jaskier’s side as he and Priscilla came up to make their introductions.

“Woah!” he said raising his hands up in surrender, “Princess, you almost flattened me!”

“Blame them!” She pointed an accusatory finger at the three figures standing together.

Jaskier turned to the trio and huffed a laugh, “Teenagers.” He muttered under his breath, “What’s that all about then?”

“Ciri used to have a nasty habit of forgetting to knock.” Triss replied with a laugh, “she has since learned better, I trust.” The sorceress extended a hand, “Triss Merigold,” she smiled, “at your service.”

“Jaskier.” the bard shook her hand, clearing his throat of the shock of her earlier statement’s implications, “Good to meet you.” He turned to motion at Priscilla, “And this is—”

“Priscilla.” the other bard cut him off, offering her own hand, “I’m afraid I’m to blame for your usual room being occupied.” she winced apologetically

Triss waved a hand, “It’s no matter, I just love to tease.” She smiled, “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, truly. I’ve heard much about you.” While the comment was directed at both bards, Triss locked eyes with only Priscilla, the sparkle of suggestion glinting in her gaze.

Yennefer definitely did not blush.

“So,” Triss turned toward where Geralt stood, “when are we going to discuss plans for our ultimate defeat?”

“Your faith and enthusiasm never seem to faulter, do they Triss?” the white haired Witcher chuckled. “Vesemir and Eskel are gathering a few things from the library,” he answered seriously, “they should be back soon. We can talk strategy then.”

“I’m sure Eskel will be _thrilled_ to see you Merigold.” Lambert called with a wink.

“Lambert do you always need to be suck a prick, or are you so thoroughly _dim_ that you can do nothing else?” Triss snapped back.

“It’s not a _need_ , sorceress, but it is always a pleasure.” he replied.

Before Triss could shoot something devastating back, Vesemir and Eskel arrived, each carrying a stack of increasingly old tomes and leather-bound volumes.

“Triss.” Vesemir called as he set down his stack on the table, “glad to have you with us.”

“Vesemir,” She greeted, “Eskel.”

Eskel shot her a quick smile in recognition, “You sure got here quickly."

“Yen and I set up a plan a while back for the eventuality that I might be needed at a moment’s notice,” Triss waved her hand, “I’ve had a bag packed and waiting for years.” Triss smirked, “I actually would have been here sooner, but Yennefer needed me to procure an additional item for my journey.” 

“It looks like your hunt was successful.” Yennefer waved to the pile of texts on the table with a practiced casualness to distract from Triss’ comments, “So,” she sniffed, tilting her chin up at the two Witchers, “what did you find?”

Vesemir placed both hands on the table and looked up to address the room. “It was a smart move on Nilfgaard’s part to use deeper, older magic for this kind of spell,” the old Witcher admitted, “it is quite strong and if it weren’t for Priscilla’s reaction to that silver, we would be completely blind to it.” Vesemir breathed deeply, “However,” he said, “it could also be their downfall. Eskel.” Vesemir nodded his head, motioning for the other man.

Eskel came forward with another book, opened it to a page and set it down in front of his teacher.

“Because this magic is so primeval,” Vesemir explained, “it is entirely unmalleable from its basic intention."

“To tie.” Jaskier muttered.

“Yes, my boy,” Vesemir nodded his head, “ _to tie_. Which means that as much as you have been tethered to them, _they_ are equally bound to _you_.” 

“The spell is like an invisible rope,” Eskel explained, “they are tracking you by pulling on that rope and hoping it leads to us here.”

“So what does this mean for us?” Lambert asked.

“We can reflect their plan back onto them!” Ciri exclaimed in realization.

“Yes child,” Vesemir replied with a proud look in his eye, “I propose we divide our group— have a few stay in Kaer Morhen as defense, while the rest go in for an ambush. We can use the connection forged by their sigils to track their path, and strike before they even get the chance to reach the keep.”

“Who would go where?” Geralt asked, arms crossed.

“We would need Jaskier and Priscilla to both remain in the keep so as not to draw Nilfgaard’s attention.” Vesemir replied. “Ciri too. And either Yennefer or Triss should remain so that each group has one mage in it.”

“No.” Ciri argued, “I want to fight.”

“And still you very well may, child.” Vesemir admitted, “If we cannot fully stop their forces in our surprise, and some manage to make it to the keep, you will be called upon to defend it.”

“But—” Ciri tried to refuse.

“Ciri,” Geralt cut her off sternly, “you’re still their target. You can’t just throw yourself at them.”

Ciri grumbled at that.

“Triss and I can devise a system of communication with our magic.” Yennefer suggested, “Some kind of flare to set off if one side is overwhelmed by Nilfgaard’s forces and needs aid. That way if we do need your help, we have a signal in place.”

Ciri considered this, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with these conditions.

“I still think we could set up some traps along the way,” Lambert piped in, “thin ‘em out before they get to us.”

“It could be worth a try,” Eskel nodded, “I’ll devise some traps that we could cover some miles out into the mountains. When the traps are tricked, we’ll know how far out they are. It would be a good way to know when we should engage our attack.”

“I can help with the traps.” Triss offered.

Eskel sputtered, “Oh, yeah, uh, that would be great.”

Lambert rolled his eyes.

“I can create some snares to reinforce Kaer Morhen itself,” Yennefer suggested

“Like a ward?” Ciri asked.

“Hmm,” Yennefer considered this, “essentially, only with a bit more kick.”

“Well, that sounds all well and good,” Jaskier commented, “but what should we,” he jerked his hand between himself and Priscilla, “the ones who are currently _tethered_ to said baddies, do?”

“Do?” Vesemir repeated, a quizzical quirk to his brow.

“Yes, _do_.” Jaskier replied, voice raising an octave, “What role should Priscilla and I play?”

“It’s like Vesemir said,” Eskel shrugged, “you’ll stay in the keep.”

“And do what?” Jaskier asked incredulously, “apply varnish to each other’s nails and gossip? Come now, surely there is something besides that?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Lambert muttered, kicking his feet up onto the table.

“Oh will you _shut it_?” Priscilla exclaimed, rounding on the smug Witcher, “I get that being an arse is part of your charm, but this is serious. Jaskier is right. We can help in the fight.” She turned to catch Vesemir’s gaze, “I will not be reduced to bait. _Never again_. If we must stay in the keep we will stay and fight.”

“And how will you fight?” Lambert ask, “will you two _sing_ them to death?”

Without speaking, Priscilla reached down into her boot and pulled out a small dagger the size of a quill. Before anyone knew what was happening, the bard threw the blade with a meticulous flick of her wrist. The metal of the dagger glinted ever so briefly as it passed through the air, the tip sinking into the wall behind Lambert’s head. It had just missed the shell of his ear. The room fell into a stunned silence.

Priscilla rolled her shoulder, “ah,” she said, “shoulder’s healed.” She walked over to the wall, and with a hard tug, removed the blade from it. She bent over as if she were tying a shoelace and slid the dagger back into her boot. As she stood up, her eyes locked with Yennefer’s for a moment, before the sorceress averted her gaze.

“Yeah, well,” Lambert replied when he finally snapped out of it, clearing his throat, “yes, I suppose you could do that.”

Triss laughed and clapped her hands together, “Oh, I like you.” She addressed Priscilla, “You can have the room!”

“Well,” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck, “I can’t quite do that. But,” he raised finger, “I used to be quiet a skilled archer as a young man. _And_ I’ve used a crossbow before.”

Geralt quirked a brow, “When have you used a crossbow?” he demanded. 

“Geralt darling,” Jaskier waved his hand, “that’s a story for a different time.”

“Okay then,” Vesemir interrupted before Geralt could say anything more on the subject, “Jaskier, you can stay up on the battlements and cover the ground from the air, and Priscilla,” his lips turned up in a hint of amusement, “based on your…display, you can pair with Ciri in ground-combat. Triss will do whatever she deems a fit use of her chaos.”

“When shall we start preparations?” Eskel asked

Vesemir considered this for a moment, stole a glance at all the faces in the room before saying, “At dawn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh ok! So the beauty of writing a character that does not have very much established about her in canon is that I can just give her knives and nobody can do anything about it! 
> 
> Also: who guessed that the backup was going to be Triss? I wasn't sure if she was going to show up myself, but here she is! And look, was she serious when she said they would be losing? Only half. But, she's ready to fight anyway and that is what we call a ride or die!
> 
> For those who are confused about the timeline, chapter 6 takes place the morning after chapter 5, chapter 7 takes place directly after chapter 6, and this chapter (8) is a few hours later. The next chapter (9) will be later that same evening. 6-9 are all in the same day... and what an eventful day! 
> 
> I hope you all are liking where this is going! 
> 
> You can find me @Priscilladyke on tumblr!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of reprieve before the preparations for Nilfgaard begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussions of sex.

“So,” Triss said, sneaking up behind Yennefer, “this is why you won't be warming my bed tonight.”

They were all gathered around the fire in the larger hall, drink in every hand, including Ciri’s. Yennefer was stood against the stone wall at the fringes of the crowd with a goblet of wine. That was until Triss interrupted her, what some might call, _brooding_. Yennefer would call it _musing_ , although she could see how one might get the two confused, if they weren't used to the practice of thought or contemplation. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Yennefer glanced over her shoulder at the other sorceress who had come to stand behind her.

“I’m referring to your early comment,” Triss explained, “that it would be ‘longer still’ before I would exert myself in such a manner.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes with a playful grin on her lips, “Triss, we both agreed long ago that it would be better if we didn’t mix sex into our friendship. Same conversation I had with Geralt. It’s too much of a strain on things with Ciri.”

“Yes, yes,” Triss sighed, “I remember. But, I’m not wrong, am I? Even if you’d lift the embargo on fucking, you wouldn’t want to. Because of _her_.” Triss tilted her chin up to where Priscilla was seated around the fireplace. The bard's head was thrown back in laughter, baring her throat and collarbones to the dancing glow of the hearth. Yennefer swallowed thickly.

“Aha!” Triss pointed a triumphant finger at her, “You _do_ have a thing for her. You wouldn’t have had me fetch _this_ if you didn’t.”

Triss reached behind her back to pick up a lute she’d placed against the wall. She held it up by its neck like a fish.

“I was a bit confused when you first made your request, I must admit.” Triss said, looking down at the lacquered wood face of the instrument, “I didn’t think you quite liked Geralt’s bard, and I couldn’t see you seeking out an instrument for him, especially if it would delay my arrival.” She shot Yennefer teasing smile, “It all fell into place when I saw that look you gave her earlier. You might be a tough nut to crack, Yen, but I know you, and I know what that meant.”

Yennefer tried so hard not to seem caught, “I haven't the slightest idea what you’re referring to.” She tried to argue, but it was no use.

“When that little blonde threw a dagger at Lambert’s head, did you or did you not want to throw her over the dining table?” Triss asked pointedly.

Yennefer worried her bottom lip between her teeth before looking at the ground and muttering a soft, “Fuck.”

Triss’ teasing smile turned soft.

“You like her.” She told Yennefer, and it wasn’t a question, “And unless I’m wrong, which I rarely ever am, _she_ likes you too.”

“How can you be sure?” the other sorceress asked, hating how uncertain she sounded.

“ _Because_ ,” Triss said, the teasing back in her voice, “while your eyes were fucking her within an inch of her life, _her_ eyes were begging for it.”

Yennefer couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine at the thought. “What if I don’t want just sex.” she asked.

Triss smiled, lifted up the lute, and pushed it into Yennefer’s hands. “You give her that.” She replied.

Yennefer held on to the instrument and nodded, “Thank you, Triss.”

The other sorceress gripped her shoulder and replied, “For you? Anytime.” Before letting go and moving to join the others around the fire. It didn't escape Yennefer’s notice that she chose a spot next to Eskel, but she didn't dwell on that for long.

After reminding herself that she was an incredibly powerful sorceress and one of the most beautiful women on the continent, Yennefer made her way to Priscilla. She walked until she was standing just behind the other woman, holding the lute behind her back. Steeling herself, Yennefer cleared her throat.

“Priscilla?” she called, and the other woman turned in her spot to look at her.

“Yennefer,” Priscilla laughed, “I’d been wondering where you’d gone.” The blonde woman patted the empty spot to her right, “Come sit.”

Yennefer couldn’t help but comply.

“Where have you been?” Priscilla asked, but rather than answer, Yennefer lifted the lute in both hands, as if she were presenting a knight a sword.

“Here.” The sorceress said, and in the periphery of her mind, she registered the room had gone quiet.

“What’s this?” Priscilla asked, looking down to the instrument with wide, shining eyes. She lifted a hand and gently placed her palm on the smooth plane of the instrument’s front. “A lute?” She asked dumbly.

Of course it was a lute, she knew what a lute was, quite intimately in fact, it was just that—

“I don’t understand.” Priscilla said.

The edge of Yennefer’s lips twitched as she looked down to the instrument. “I figured it must’ve been a while since you played last, and I thought you might like an opportunity to do so again.” She explained, “I asked Triss if she could acquire one in her preparation to come here.” 

A choked sound escaped the bard’s mouth, and Yennefer looked up to see a tear trailing down Priscilla’s cheek.

“Oh,” she said, her brow’s knitting in concern, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you upset—”

“No!” Priscilla stopped her, she wiped her eyes and chuckled wetly, “No, I’m not upset. Far from it in fact. I’m just a little overwhelmed. This is so thoughtful.”

Yennefer smiled sheepishly at that, “It wasn’t entirely selfless.” she admitted.

“Oh?” Priscilla smirked, wiping her eyes, “How so?”

“Well,” Yennefer shrugged, “I’ve never had the chance to hear you perform.”

Priscilla beamed and then took the lute, pulling it firmly into her lap. She placed her hands over the strings and began tuning the instrument. Once she was satisfied it was in working order, she looked up at the group around the fire.

“Any requests?” Priscilla asked the room, only to turn her gaze at the last moment so that the question landed on Yennefer.

“A ballad!” Ciri called from the other side of the room.

Priscilla held Yennefer’s gaze, and the sorceress nodded in agreement, “Yes,” she said, “a ballad would be grand.”

The bard paused to consider her options before she turned towards the double in her once double-act, “Jaskier,” Priscilla asked, “will you back me up?”

Jaskier smiled warmly, “Of course darling,” he replied easily, “which song?”

“Let’s do the one we played at that inn in Verdon.” Priscilla suggested.

“Oooh,” Jaskier clapped, “a good choice.”

Priscilla ran a ghost-like touch over the lute, as if to be sure it was real, before she tapped on the edge of the bowl to count herself in— _one, two, three, four_.

When she began to play, the whole room transfixed themselves onto the movement of her fingers—the elegant way they danced over the strings. It was a melancholic sort of melody, like the sound of summer rain against a windowsill. Priscilla played as if she’d never stopped, as easy as the sun rises.

“ _One day I lay on a clear field_ / _And let the night wash over me_ /” her voice rang out, its sweet tone like a balm, “ _A knight without a sword to wield_ / _No steel to shield my heart from thee._ ”

Ciri walked over to Triss and outstretched a hand in invitation. Triss got to her feet, and the two began to sway together. It was less of a dance and more a standing embrace, but the two women carried on as they listened to the ballad unfold. Priscilla played a short flourish before singing again.

“ _As sunlight fled and grass turned blue_ / _The stars did ornament the sky_. _I found my way by silvered moon_ / _The path which led me to your side_.” The bard looked up and caught Jaskier’s eyes in her own. He offered her a reassuring nod, and as she finished another cluster of cords, the two sung the chorus in harmony.

“ _You’d flee my dreams come dawn_ /” Priscilla sang in a light trill, while Jaskier offered a deeper accompaniment, “ _You’d leave me in tempests’ arms_ /” Priscilla caught a glance as Lambert and Eskel joined in the non-dancing, and laughed through the lyrics, “ _You’d relieve me of all my senses/ and I would still helplessly love you_.”

Yennefer could not help the warmth of affection she felt, the thrum of her heart keeping in time with the each pull of the lute’s strings. Priscilla was fantastic. Of course she was.

“ _If e’er I tried to snap the thread/Which laces ‘round our fates entwined/_ ” Yennefer listened to the words pour out of Priscilla’s mouth, but was compelled to look towards Geralt. His eyes were fixed on Jaskier. “ _I’d find it turned from silk to lead/My heart grown heavier in kind_.”

Yennefer knew what Geralt felt for the other man. She didn’t have to search through his mind to know that he loved the bard, it was clear as anything. Despite what the Witcher thought, he was rather poor at hiding how he felt, from her at least. She caught a peculiar glint in his eye, and before she could feel too much like an intruder, the sorceress turned her gaze back to Priscilla.

“ _My love is like the ocean’s shore/ I’ll give my body to your tide_.” Priscilla glanced up, sent a meaningful look to Yennefer, before looking back down to her fingers, “ _Until the day I’m old and hoar/I’ll lose myself to violet eyes._ ”

Yennefer’s eyes widened and she looked around the room. The only other person who seemed to have caught the slip was Jaskier, who’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead as he joined into the chorus. He glanced over ever so briefly at Yennefer, and she saw a flash of… something, pass over his expression. It was no longer shocked confusion but it instead shone with realization. He flushed and turned his gaze back to Priscilla.

“ _If, my dear, you find me weak/In drowning in my want of you_ ,” She sang, slowing the tempo of the song as it began to descent into its conclusion, “ _Then ne’er another word I’ll speak/Instead I’ll savor in the view._ ”

The final chorus she sang alone.

“ _You’d flee my dreams come dawn/You’d leave me in tempests’ arms/You’d relieve me of all my senses/and I would still helplessly love you_ …” 

Priscilla finished with a slow strum which echoed the way she sang the last line, so that all that rang in Yennefer’s ears was her promise of devotional love.

When Priscilla looked up from her lute, the dancing had stopped, and all eyes were on her. The sudden silence was broken by Ciri’s applause, which the others began to echo. Priscilla stood, took a bow with a smile, and then gestured to Jaskier for him to do the same.

“Thank you,” Vesemir said as the applause finished, “It has been some time since these halls have heard music, and it was sorely missed.”

“Thank Yennefer and Triss,” Priscilla blushed, “they got me the lute.”

“Yes, yes. We are all wonderful.” Triss teased, “Well, on that _note_ ” she clapped her hands together, “I’m off to bed.”

“Yes,” Vesemir agreed, “We should all retire and get some rest. I will see you in the training yard bright and early.”

Lambert and Ciri groaned, but it wasn’t long before they, and everyone else, retreated to their rooms for the night.

Priscilla was walking down the hall to her own room when she was stopped by a voice.

“You changed it.” Yennefer said, and Priscilla turned to face her, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“Changed what?” the bard asked.

“In the song,” Yennefer explained, “I’ve heard it before, and the line goes ‘I’ll lose myself to _emerald_ eyes.’ You sang _violet_.”

“Yes,” Priscilla’s gaze was firm, challenging almost, “I did.”

Yennefer breathed sharply through her nose at the blatant admission. “Why?” she asked in a strained voice. She almost sounded angry, but there was something in her gaze that colored it differently, as if she were laboring over the effort to keep from being hopeful.

Priscilla shrugged, but her response held no doubt, “I thought it would ring truer.”

Yennefer released a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding, “And,” she swallowed, “what truth might that be?”

Priscilla’s gaze lowered to the ground and she took a single step closer to the sorceress. By instinct Yennefer took an equal step back. The bard took another step, and then another, and every time Yennefer would move backward, until finally the sorceress’ back hit the cold stone of the wall.

Priscilla was just shy of Yennefer’s height, and so she reached up, cupped the other woman’s jaw in her palm, and stroked her thumb against the soft skin of the sorceress’ cheek. Yennefer leaned into the touch. 

The pad of Priscilla’s thumb moved from the other woman’s cheek and ghosted over the pout of her bottom lip. Violet eyes met stormy blue, and then lighting struck.

The sorceress and the bard kissed in the once great Witcher keep, their bodies pressed against its cold stone, and yet they felt nothing but warmth. It wasn't messy, as many first kisses can be, but it was hard. Two fires fed each other, stopping only for lack of air. 

When they broke apart Yennefer breathlessly asked, “This is true?”

Priscilla smiled and kissed her nose, her cheek, her brow, the shell of her ear—covered Yennefer in chaste kisses like wildflowers.

“Yes,” Priscilla finally whispered, pressing a quick kiss finally to Yennefer’s lips, “this is true.”

The sorceress sunk down to kiss the bard once more. And they kissed, and kissed, and lost themselves in a world free of war or anything that was not the other’s mouth. The stone walls melted like wax. Their hands—tangled in each other’s hair—melted too, but they didn’t care. They let themselves indulge in being shapeless.

They stayed like that until the candles burned out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LETS GO LESBIANS!! 
> 
> Its pride month and the Priscilla/Yennefer pairing is dedicated to my fellow Lesbians and Sapphics! Part of my interest in writing this fic is because of a lack of wlw pairings going on in this fandom. This is a love letter to y'all—to us! 
> 
> The ballad is an original, and I wrote it vaguely to the tune of Greensleeves. I listen to a lot of lute music while I study, and Greensleeves is always on those albums, sometimes more than once! So the tune is very much an influence here. I didn't include the title in the chapter because I thought if Priscilla said it out loud, the change in lyrics would be too obvious, but it's called "Emerald Eyes" as a little nod to Greensleeves. Here is one of many great instrumental covers of that song, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLRRlIfpOWI 
> 
> If anyone were to read this and hypothetically have musical talents, and would theoretically be interested in setting the lyrics to similar music... I would not, in this hypothetical, be at all opposed to that and would most likely think that it was epic! Just so you know... 
> 
> Next up: Kaer Morhen prepares for a fight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They begin at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Panic attacks

Vesemir wasn’t joking when he said they would begin at dawn.

The sliver of sun which inched over the mountain was thin enough to thread through the eye of a needle. Even the rooster that guarded the gardens was still asleep in his den. It should have been no surprise that Jaskier would be similarly gone from the world.

He was in the midst of a dreamless sleep, which had been preferable as of late. Nightmares were obviously not well liked by anyone, and his worst nights were spent in the clutches of some terror. Recently, though, even his best dreams were a burden, for once morning came and he opened his eyes onto reality, the sweetness of those dreams would leave emptiness in their retreat.

When his sleep was dreamless he would wake feeling nothing, and for the bard neutrality was its own respite.

Today, though, Vesemir declared would begin at dawn, and so his nothingness was disrupted when a body suddenly flung itself onto the edge of his mattress.

Jaskier jolted awake as if he’d just been thrown into the shallow end of a river. He squinted up into the still too-dark room and saw Ciri, perched like a cat, her green eyes flashing. For a moment she looked as lethal a threat as any Witcher, until she burst into a fit of giggles.

“You were so scared.” she laughed.

Jaskier huffed as he flopped his head back against the pillow, “Yes well, being jumped on in the middle of the night will do that to a person.” Jaskier pulled the blanket up so that it covered his face.

“It’s not the middle of the night.” Ciri said, pulling the blanket clean off the bed, “It’s dawn.” She corrected, “I’ve been sent to fetch you for morning training.”

Jaskier glared at her and then looked up to the window, “How can it be dawn and still so dark out?”

“Dawn is when the sun _begins_ to rise,” Ciri explained.

“I thought it was when the sun was fully risen.” Jaskier argued although he knew it wasn’t true. He simply didn’t want to leave his bed.

“Dawn is whatever time Vesemir says it is.” Ciri replied firmly, “If you don’t come willingly I have express orders to use any force necessary.” she said putting on an air of intimidation. Only the subtlest twitch of her lip gave away her amusement, but it was still too dark to see.

“Alright, alright,” Jaskier said raising his hands in surrender, “I’ll come willingly. Just give me a moment to dress myself, if it pleases your highness.”

Ciri nodded with a smirk and went to wait outside while Jaskier changed into appropriate clothes to train in. It was lucky, he supposed, that his winter stores remained untouched. He had a virtual wardrobe full of trousers and chemises, along with some warmer furs and knits that he accumulated over his visits to the keep. Priscilla especially had been lucky that many of his clothes fit her too, a custom they had been used to on the road. His Kaer Morhen collection featured none of his silks, mind you, and so he dressed in a leather pant and a loose chemise.

When he was done getting dressed, he met Ciri in the hall, and the two made their way to the training ground.

Vesemir, Geralt, Lambert, and surprisingly Priscilla, were already waiting for them. His still sleep-rattled brain figured the others were probably off working on magical things.

Ciri and Jaskier joined the lineup, and the bard sent a sleepy smile to Priscilla. He exchanged good mornings with her, and a sly smile with Geralt. 

“Good morning princess,” Lambert called out, “Oh, and good morning to you too Ciri.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes as Geralt smacked Lambert upside the head.

Ignoring the exchange Vesemir carried on, “We will begin today by strengthening your defensive skillset.” the old Witcher explained, “The core of these coming days will be targeted preparation for a battle.”

The sun was finally beginning to rise in earnest, the training ground cast in a hazy blue.

“Before we begin with that, I want you all to take ten laps around the battlements.” Vesemir explained. For a moment the group all simply stayed put, staring back at their teacher, waiting for him to say something else.

“That meant now!” Vesemir exclaimed incredulously, and they all scrambled to start their warmup.

By the time they finished running, then doing weighted exercises, then doing some particular stretches that Jaskier had never before thought possible for a body to achieve, the sun was fully up.

“Alright,” Vesemir called out, “time to pair off. Geralt with Lambert, Ciri with Priscilla, and Jaskier,” the old Witcher regarded the bard, “you come with me.” 

With the sounds of the two pairs sparring behind them, Vesemir led Jaskier to a part of the practice grounds blocked off by a fence. By the back of this secluded area was what at first glance looked to be a scarecrow—the contours of a body made up of tough burlap and stuffed with hay. At second looks, Jaskier registered that large red dots were painted over it; one on the face, one over the chest, and one lower down by the abdomen.

“It has been some time since this particular type of practice has been needed.” Vesemir explained, “But, although I specialized in fencing and swordplay, I know enough to help. I dragged these supplies out from our stores, so they may be older than you, but they should do.”

Vesemir walked behind the dummy and picked up a crossbow, a traditional bow, and a bucket of arrows.

“You should start with this.” the old Witcher held the traditional bow up before placing it into the bard’s arms, “The crossbow can be a little bit more cumbersome, but it is rather simple compared to its cousin. You start with the harder instrument, and the rest will fall into place.”

“I know that I made a big fuss earlier,” Jaskier admitted sheepishly, “but it’s been some time since I’ve held a bow.

“Well,” Vesemir smirked to himself and looked down to the bundle in the bard’s hands, “it looks like you’ve already remedied that.”

Jaskier gave a weak laugh but didn’t look convinced.

“Listen here, my boy.” Vesemir placed a hand on his shoulder, “You’re more than capable of this.”

Jaskier tried not to beam.

“Now,” Vesemir nodded, walking so that he was behind Jaskier on the opposite wall to the dummy, “pick up that bow, and show me what you remember.”

What Jaskier remembered was actually quite a bit. He was certainly rusty, but he’d managed to sink most of the arrows into the dummy, some even hitting the red targets. Vesemir spent most of the training in silence.

Jaskier collected the all of arrows from the dummy once the bucket was clear of them. He then readied his bow for another shot, when a voice piped up from the entrance of the makeshift shooting range. 

“What’s going on over here?” Lambert asked mischievously, “Geralt,” he turned to the other Witcher who stood beside him with an equal smirk, “why didn’t you tell me your boyfriend was an elf?”

The grin wiped off Geralt’s face and he landed a hard punch to Lambert’s shoulder.

“Why aren’t you two completing your training?” Vesemir asked sternly.

“We missed you _terribly_!” Lambert pouted in jest. Geralt huffed a laugh.

Vesemir rolled his eyes, “Well, if you’re going to abandon your own exercise, you might as well assist with Jaskier’s.” the old Witcher folded his arms over his chest, “Geralt,” he jerked his head towards the dummy, “go stand over there.”

The white haired Witcher quirked a brow but did as he was told. He stood so that his body eclipsed the dummy’s.

“Now move a breath to your right.” Vesemir instructed, nodding approvingly when Geralt moved into place. “Jaskier,” the old Witcher turned his attention onto the bard, “you are going to try to hit the dummy.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he sputtered, “What?!”

Lambert barked out a laugh, “Yeah Vesemir, that’s too easy, Geralt’s huge!”

Ignoring the youngest wolf’s ill sense of humor, Vesemir repeated himself, “You will try and hit the target. It’s smaller, yes, but I think you will manage.”

“Manage?” Jaskier all but shrieked, “All I’ll _manage_ to do is shoot Geralt.”

“You won’t hurt him.” Vesemir sighed, “if an arrow comes too close, he’ll catch it.” 

“I don’t know…” Jaskier still seemed uncertain.

“Jask.” Geralt called out, “It’s alright.”

The bard still wasn’t totally convinced that this was necessary or practical, and he still felt a quaking anxiety that something would go wrong, but Geralt _trusted_ him. That itself was shock enough to jolt him into action. He picked up another arrow, got back into position and readied his bow. He aimed at the sliver of the dummy’s head, took a breath, and released the arrow.

Geralt caught it by the shaft before the tip could puncture his eye

Jaskier stared at him in horror. Suddenly the air felt heavy and the walls of the shooting range felt suffocating. He dropped his bow like it burned and, without a word, ran.

“Jaskier!” Vesemir called after him, but he ignored it

The bard ran past the training ground, where Priscilla and Ciri called after him, but he ignored them too. Jaskier couldn’t register anything but the need to flee, to be anywhere but _there_. He ended up in the library, of all places, and collapsed in-between two of the stacks.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was making him freak out like this. This wasn’t a new experience by any means, he’d had his fair share of panic on the road. He’d had a few moments in Nilfgaard camp where the walls of the tent felt like they were strangling him. Still, he couldn’t quite pin down what exactly was making him feel this way.

Well, the phrasing ‘pin down’ wasn’t helping matters either.

He was so stupid to think he could be useful in this fight. He was no warrior, and he was a fool to try to be one now. He’d spent half his life trailing after a Witcher of all people and still he couldn’t fight. He’d allowed himself to be captured by Nilfgaard. He dragged Priscilla into it—the closest friend he’d made since he met Geralt in Posada, he put in danger. He couldn’t even do the one thing he was supposed to be good at because his finger was too stiff. Priscilla played the night before, and all he could do was back her up and try not to drown in his own envy. He hated himself for feeling anything but joy at his friend’s music, but he couldn’t help but wallow in his own longing. He was so _weak_. Now, he’d almost driven an arrow through Geralt’s eye after the man trusted him—it was all too much.

Jaskier registered a sound coming from outside his own head, but it was garbled, like he was underwater trying to listen to a voice on the surface. He swam to its source.

“Jaskier.” he could make out his own name.

He broke through the surface of his own panic with a gasp, and when he looked up towards the source of the voice, he was met with the face of the man whose eye he just nearly took out.

Geralt’s expression was hard for Jaskier to read. It was scrunched up in what looked vaguely like concern. It was mainly just blurry.

 _Oh_ , Jaskier thought, _I’m crying_. He wasn’t sure when that started, and as he blinked up at Geralt he realized that he hadn’t really stopped yet either.

“Jaskier.” Geralt said in a tone the bard had only heard him use to calm Roach whenever she got spooked, which was a rarity in itself. Something about the gentleness of it pierced through Jaskier’s resolve. It didn’t sound forced or uncomfortable in the Witcher’s mouth, not like it had been all those years ago with the Djinn

The way Geralt said his name—it punctuated a thought that Jaskier had been having since he got to Kaer Morhen. Fatherhood had changed the Witcher, had smoothed out some of his edges. He felt more openly, and now it seemed _cared_ more openly too. He was a different man.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called again, “please calm down,” he pled, “it’s alright.”

Geralt was knelt in front of the bard, sat on his heals. He looked as if he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. That one bit of awkwardness, that sliver of normalcy, of the man that Jaskier knew and loved, was all it took for the bard to throw his body into the Witcher’s. He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s middle and buried his head into the other man’s chest. It seemed the Witcher knew what to do with his hands then, as he lowered them to pull Jaskier closer.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier whispered as he shuddered against Geralt’s chest.

The Witcher moved one hand up to run soothing fingers through the bard’s hair, “No need to be.” Geralt replied, “I’m alright."

Jaskier shook his head against Geralt’s body, “I’m sorry.” he repeated. Geralt decided not to answer this time. Rather, he tightened his hold on the bard. It was becoming clearer that this wasn’t about the shooting range.

“You’re alright.” Geralt soothed as he held his bard steady. It was both a promise and a plea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a bit dramatic. Maybe not the best idea to ask the bard, who's still a bit rusty, to shoot at his Witcher? Vesemir did say that it wasn't his specialty.. 
> 
> Jaskier needs a hug or a therapist (one of which he gets next chapter). 
> 
> Thank you thank you for reading and leaving me kudos and comments!!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor is in! 
> 
> or: Jaskier gets a lil therapy from a surprising source.

“Come in.” Jaskier called at the knock on his door but did not look up from his writing desk.

“Jaskier.” Yennefer greeted as she entered his room, her black robe billowing behind her.

He finally looked up in surprise at the identity of his visitor, “I thought you would be Geralt.” Jaskier admitted.

“He does have a rather delicate knock doesn’t he?” Yennefer teased. Jaskier snorted in response before turning back to his writing.

“What can I do for you sorceress?” he asked, but there was no malice in his tone.

“Must I have a reason for a visit?” she asked innocently as she sat down on the edge of his bed.

Jaskier turned over his shoulder and shot her a pointed look.

“Fine,” she sighed crossing her arms. She looked down and kicked at the floor, “I heard about the _incident_ earlier at the shooting range,” she tried to put it delicately, “and I thought I would check and see how you were.”

Jaskier’s look turned even more incredulous, “You wanted to see how I was?” he parroted back.

“Well don’t look _so_ shocked!” Yennefer rolled her eyes, “Everyone, and I mean _everyone,_ ” she emphasized, “even _Lambert_ , was worried after you apparently fled the training grounds like a wyvern out of hell and then proceeded to have a minor breakdown.”

Jaskier’s jaw tensed at the mention of the events, “Yes, I know what happened,” he snapped, “I very well lived it didn’t I?” Yennefer looked taken aback by his outburst and Jaskier took a calming breath and sighed, “Sorry.

Yennefer waved it off with her hand, “It’s no matter. I can empathize with being a bit on edge.”

Jaskier huffed a humorless laugh, “So,” he said after a moment, “even Lambert?”

Yennefer grinned, “He’s a jackass most of the time but he’s just as soft in the middle as the rest of them. He _was_ concerned, though,” she admitted, “as was Geralt. Although it seems none of them want to ask you _why_ you got so upset for fear of upsetting you further.”

“And you fear nothing.” Jaskier stated.

“Least of all upsetting you.” Yennefer confirmed and Jaskier laughed. “So?” she prompted. He smiled tightly at the sorceress before his lips fell into a thin line.

“I knew he could catch the arrow.” Jaskier finally admitted, “I’ve seen him do it before. An arrow would cut through the air as quick as anything, and he’d still catch it.” He looked up at Yennefer, “Geralt’s not the one I’m afraid of getting hurt.”

“Do you think you'll get hurt?” Yennefer asked with wide eyes, "You think he’ll hurt you?"

“He won’t again.” Jaskier shook his head, “I know he won’t. But—” the bard clenched his fingers by his side.

“When Nilfgaard had me,” he tried again, “I wasn’t scared of being hurt. I’d have been acquainted with fear and pain, and as unpleasant as they can be, I could take it then if it meant keeping Geralt safe.” He sighed, “I was scared for Priscilla.” He admitted, “she didn’t have anything to do with this, she didn’t know Geralt or Ciri, and she shouldn’t have to die for them. But as for myself, I wasn’t scared of what they could do to me.” he shook his head, “I was scared because I thought if I died, I wouldn’t be able to tell Geralt off for how he left things at the mountain.”

I surprised laugh caught in Yennefer’s throat.

“I was furious with him.” Jaskier continued, “He makes me fall in love with him for two decades and then he tosses me aside like—” He cut himself off once he realized his own admission

Yennefer smirked, “Don’t worry bard, I know. You’re terrible at hiding it.

Jaskier flushed, “Yes well,” he cleared his throat, “as I said, I planned on telling him off. Six whole years I spent composing the most devastating things to say to him only to be killed before I could see his ugly mug once more? I knew the Gods had a sense of humor but none so wicked.”

“You were afraid you’d never see him again.” Yennefer translated, seeing through the bard’s false outrage.

“Yes, well.” Jaskier shrugged, “And then he saves me, and he _apologizes_ , and ruins all of my plans of yelling at him.” The comedic bravado the bard put on slipped off, “He’s like this different man.” he explained “He apologized for one, but it’s also the way he acts. He laughs more. He’s more open in his affections. He trusted me to fucking shoot an _arrow_ at his _head_ when for years he wouldn’t trust me to wash his socks!” Jaskier exclaimed. 

“I’m failing to see the problem.” Yennefer replied.

Jaskier sighed, “Do you know what the last thing he said to me was?” he didn’t give her a chance to answer, “That it would be his life’s _blessing_ to be rid of me.”

Yennefer clenched her jaw, “So I’d heard.”

The bard was silent for a moment. He was a wordsmith, and he thought carefully about what he would say next. “At first I thought that his new demeanor had been a product of guilt.” Jaskier explained, “Geralt is a champion at guilt, and it wouldn’t have been such a shock that he would feel guilty for what happened to me. But the more time I spend around you all the more I realize that this ‘new Geralt’ is not some self-flagellation, but a genuine _change_.”

“I still am at a loss for what the _problem_ is.” Yennefer pinched her brow.

“I think Geralt was right.” Jaskier admitted finally, “I think my absence _was_ a blessing.”

Yennefer didn’t know how to take that. Her whole body sagged with the weight of the bard’s words.

“Jaskier—” she tried to reply.

“What’s more,” Jaskier’s voice shook with the effort not to cry again, “is that while Geralt has so clearly _changed_ in our time apart,” the bard laughed wetly, “I’m still the same. I’m still so _weak_.” Yennefer got up from where she was perched and stood in front of the bard. She looked as if she might hug him. Jaskier was shocked by the sting of a slap.

“Ow!” he exclaimed. “Yennefer what the _fuck_?”

“You think you’re weak?” She thundered.

“You’ve just slapped me.” He replied dumbly.

“Answer the question bard.” the sorceress demanded.

“I just said I was didn’t I?”

“Would a weak man withstand torture to protect someone who broke his heart?” Yennefer argued.

“Yes!” Jaskier shot back.

Yennefer had the good grace to look taken aback by that. “Why did you protect him?” she asked in a softer tone

“Because I love him.” Jaskier replied easily.

“And you think love is weakness?” the sorceress pressed.

Jaskier stayed silent.

“I’m going to tell you something bard,” Yennefer sat back down on the bed, “and I hope you listen.”

Jaskier looked sheepishly at his feet.

“People like Geralt and I, we were taught that what we feel can only get in the way of what we must _do_. Geralt, Eskel, Lambert— they were taught by Vesemir, who was taught by other Witchers himself, that attachments can get you killed. To feel meant to die. For me,” she took a deep breath, “for me the lesson was that attachments can make you lose your focus on power. To become a mage they take away your ability to have children, a family.”

Jaskier’s eyes saddened, and he looked as if he were about to say something, but Yennefer put her hand up to stop him.

“In Aretuza, I learned that to feel meant to be powerless.” She sighed, “for people like Geralt and I, feelings, _love_ , equated with weakness.” She gave the bard an appraising look, “The change you see in him, the change I felt in myself personally, it’s not a matter of Geralt becoming a different person. We’ve just been proven wrong.”

Jaskier looked at Yennefer with a sad smile, “Is it selfish of me to wish that I had been the one who could have done that for him? That I could have been the one to prove him wrong?”

Yennefer quirked a brow, “Who said that you weren’t?”

“I’ve been gone from his life for six years, in which time he’s found you and his child of surprise,” Jaskier pointed out, “and in that time, that’s when he has this supposed big revelation.”

“I won’t deny that Ciri has been a good influence on him.” Yennefer nodded, “Her presence has forced us all to tap into nurturing ways we’d thought lost or impossible.” she admitted, “But, have you considered that your absence might have been a catalyst to his revelation, not because he was better without you, but because he was made to feel the absence of your love for the first time in twenty years?” 

Jaskier took in this possibility.

“What did you say to Geralt when he apologized?” Yennefer asked.

“I told him that I forgave him,” Jaskier shrugged, “because I’m getting too old not to do what pleases me.”

Yennefer folded her arms over her chest.

“Before things went to shit on that mountain,” the bard explained, “I asked Geralt to go to the coast with me, let things settle down a bit. I told him I was trying to find what pleases me, but I knew all along it was just being with him.” His response was earnest, and it sobered the sorceress.

“Did you mean that?” she asked, “Your forgiveness?”

“Yes.” Jaskier admitted, “I meant every word. I don’t want to spend any more time mad at him, I don’t want to waste any more of my life, but—” he scrunched up his face and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Then we found out that I’m being used like a worm on a magical hook and,” he took a deep breath, “I’m scared.”

“You’re afraid you’ll die before you get to do what pleases you.” Yennefer assessed before it dawned on her, “Only, this time it’s not just you who needs to stay alive for that to happen.” Her eyes widened, “You’re worried for _him_?” she asked incredulously.

Jaskier scowled, “Why are you even here Yennefer?” he demanded, “Why do you care? You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” Yennefer frowned

The bard scoffed.

“I _don’t_.” she insisted. “Of all the things to disbelieve, me not hating you seems a bit unreasonable.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say.

“You know, Priscilla said she thought you never truly hated me either.” Yennefer broached.

The bard’s lips twitched, “Yes well,” he cleared his throat, “that might be true. I thought you hated me so I hated you back.” he shrugged as his only defense, “pettiness is only one of my vices.”

“Well I don’t.” Yennefer sniffed, “hate you that is.”

“Yes, well, I don’t either.” Jaskier flashed a small smile, before it turned wicked, “Speaking of Priscilla though…” He needled.

Yennefer blushed, “yes..”

“You both seemed awfully chummy last night.” the bard smirked.

“I’m not here to talk about me and Priscilla.” Yennefer insisted.

Jaskier only could smile. He tilted his head to the side, “So there is a ‘you and Priscilla.’ It’s strange. I can see it.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, “See what?”

“You two together.” the bard shrugged, “Priscilla has been a kindred spirit,” he explained “she has skill enough to find something in everyone to love. I’m not surprised she’s fallen for you.”

“Bards.” Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Just remember,” Jaskier said, ignoring her, “that after falling there is landing.” A serious glint flashed in his eyes, “don’t let her crash.”

Yennefer returned the severity of his gaze, “I won’t.” she promised.

Jaskier gave her an appraising look and then nodded. He cleared his throat, “Well that certainly wasn’t a conversation I was anticipating this evening.”

“Yes well,” Yennefer stood and flattened the fabric of her skirt with her hand, “Now that I am sure you are not going to fling yourself off the battlements the next time you so much as break a nail, I suppose I can bid you good night bard.” Though the words were said with a straight face, there was a hint of amusement in her gaze. Jaskier snorted.

“Good night sorceress.” He called after her. 

"Jaskier." she said as she stopped in the threshold, "you _will_ be alright?" a glimmer of genuine worry flashed over her features.

The bard considered this, "Yes." he responded, "Yes, I'll be alright." 

As the sorceress fled from the room, he hoped it would be true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH! You thought the whole thing with the mountain was resolved? Well, you're half right. Jaskier has forgiven Geralt, but he also has some complicated feelings about everything that's going on, which, ok fair! 
> 
> I think that these two have such an interesting dynamic that I love to write. This chapter is dedicated to the Yennskier server. 
> 
> Chapters might be a bit spaced out now bc I'm writing some major plot and want to make sure its good for y'all! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who leaves kudos and comments! Seeing your energy for the plot makes me so happy!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training continues on the battlements.

The days which followed that first morning training seemed rather uneventful by comparison.

The residents of Kaer Morhen developed a sort of rhythm. The Witchers, along with Ciri and Priscilla, sparred at dawn while Jaskier practiced shooting in the range. He’d surprised everyone when he awoke at first light the day following his first attempt and made his way to the training grounds, same as everyone else. He’d sent Vesemir a shy smile, and a reassuring nod to Geralt, and joined them in their laps around the battlements. He then made valant and shockingly successful attempts at sticking that damned hay-filled demon with as many arrows as possible.

And, if later the bard was caught in the shooting range, whispering lowly with the white-haired Witcher about gods knows what, nobody spoke of it.

As the group on the battlements trained their bodies for a fight, the sorceresses took on the task of preparing the land itself. They, along with some help from Eskel, set three rings of traps around the perimeter of the keep. One was set at a radius of a three-day ride, the next at a one-day ride, and finally a ring of traps was set around the border of the keep itself. Every single placement was marked on a map of Kaer Morhen Eskel found in the library.

It was a large muslin cloth with hand painted markings, probably meant more for decoration than practical use. Wherever a trap lay, a yellow circle glowed. If it was tripped, the spot would turn red, and they would know where Nilfgaard’s forces were. When they tripped the three-day marker, the ambush team could leave and meet Nilfgaard before they could make it to the one-day marker. If they triggered the one-day marker, the group staying behind would know to ready themselves for a fight. It was all very meticulous, but what else could be expected from the likes of Yennefer and Triss in the wings of such a battle.

The interim, though, was for training.

A deep, guttural sound rang out over the battlements.

“Argh!” Priscilla grunted as she hit the ground on her back. She had just a moment to roll to the side before Ciri could pin her. Priscilla got to her feet, and made an attempt to tackle Ciri from behind, but before she could wrap her arms around the younger woman’s middle, Ciri kicked her leg back like a mule and hooked her ankle around the back of Priscilla’s thigh. With one hard cant of her hips, Ciri flipped the both of them onto their backs, her elbow pinning the bard down.

“I’m going to die aren’t I?” Priscilla groaned.

Ciri huffed a laugh as she got to her feet. She brushed off her legs and stretched out a hand for Priscilla to take. When the bard grasped her forearm, Ciri pulled her to a standing position.

“You aren’t going to die.” the green-eyed girl chuckled.

“Oh?” Priscilla panted.

“You can probably stick to throwing knives,” Ciri shrugged, “And if you do need to engage in some hand-to-hand, I’ve got your back. You only keep losing because you’re fighting _against_ me.”

Priscilla smiled at the promise, and the two made their way to the water spigot. After pouring a glass and handing it to the bard, Ciri began pouring one for herself.

“So,” she said casually as she lifted the handle of the spout, mountain-chilled water flowing into her cup, “You’re fucking my mother.”

Priscilla choked on the sip of water she’d taken. She placed a hand on her chest and coughed, “Excuse me?”

Calm as a sea’s breeze, Ciri brought her cup to her mouth. She hovered with its edge over her lips, “You and Yennefer,” she gestured to the bard with a slight tip of the cup, “you’re fucking right?” she asked before finally taking a drink.

In truth, they had been.

The first night, after the fire, the two had simply kissed (although, there was nothing simple about it). But in the recent handful of days since, things had… progressed between them. Neither of them were blushing maidens, and with the promise of a battle hung over them, the two had become incredibly close, incredibly fast. This included physical proximity.

They weren’t hiding their affections necessarily. Priscilla certainly had confided about the affair to Jaskier, and she was sure that Yennefer had done similarly with Triss, but with the others it was an unspoken thing. There was too much going on in the Witcher keep for their romance to become a distraction. They would sit close together at meals, and leave together at night, but they would make no big display of it.

For Ciri to bring it up point blank, Priscilla wasn’t really sure how to feel except mortified.

“I mean,” Ciri broached after a stretch of the bard’s horror-stricken silence, “I didn’t think it was a secret.”

“No!” Priscilla rushed to assure after she could once again breathe, “Not a secret. It’s just, uh, you are quite blunt, my dear. You were so disturbed the other day by mention of Yennefer's _involvement_ with Geralt and Triss I just," she fumbled around for the words, "did not expect you to say that.”

Ciri shrugged, “Walking in on it is a different story than acknowledging it. Besides, that was mainly Triss riling me up. She likes to tease me, but I’m no prude. I grew up with Witchers.” She explained, “Vulgarity was not necessarily spared even to the young girl they met me as.”

Priscilla nodded, a blush deepening the exerted flush on her cheeks as she took another sip of water.

“So you _are_ fucking then?” Ciri asked again.

“I wish you wouldn’t say it like that.” Priscilla winced, “This isn’t a whorehouse and we aren’t rabbits. Besides,” she folded her arms in front of her, “it’s more than that.”

“So you’re saying it’s more than… sex?” Ciri asked carefully.

Priscilla snorted a laugh, “I can’t speak for your… Yennefer,” she nodded, “but I know my own heart, and I know that it feels quite deeply for her. I won’t dare call it love yet, but I—”

“You want to _be_ with her.” Ciri grinned.

“Does that bother you?” Priscilla worried.

Ciri shook her head, “Why should it bother me?”

Priscilla shrugged, “Dunno,” she took another sip of water, “you said she’s like your mother. Aren’t there stories enough of princesses who’re weary of step-mothers?”

Ciri raised an incredulous brow, a look she learned from Yennefer, “I thought you couldn’t say yet that you loved her—now you’re my step-mother?”

“You know what I mean.” Priscilla nudges her elbow at the younger woman’s arm.

Ciri grinned and shook her head again, “No, it doesn’t bother me. Yennefer’s a powerful sorceress who can take care of herself, and,” she shrugged, “I like you. I can’t explain it, but I know you won’t hurt her. Between everything that happened with Geralt, that I know about anyway, and with looking after me all this time, she deserves a win in the romance department.”

Priscilla beamed a little under Ciri’s words. She took another sip of her water and basked in the praise a moment longer. The short, sweat-soaked fringes of her hair had begun to cool on her neck, and a sharp kiss of wind on them sent a shiver down her spine.

The bard was about to make some uncomely joke about 'wins in the romance department' when a raised voice rang through the battlements. 

“Quick!” Triss cried, “Everyone! Come quickly!”

The whole training ground froze, and Ciri turned a wide-eyed look to Priscilla.

“Now!” Triss insisted, hands flapping wildly at her side, and everyone moved into action. The sorceress led them through the virtual labyrinth of halls until they came upon the library. Eskel’s eyes widened in realization before they’d even made it past the threshold.

Once in the library, they found Yennefer already there, hunched over a table, her pinched expression illuminated by a yellow glow. Triss made her way to the other sorceress’ side, and the rest of the group huddled around the table. On its surface was a sheet of muslin with a painted map of the keep on its surface. Hovering above it like fireflies were pins dictating the location of various traps, all yellow save for a single exception.

A red spot, like the eyes of a viper. A single momento mori in the midst of an elegant tapestry. 

A trap had been triggered. 

Yennefer lifted her gaze and fixed it onto Priscilla. It was a look of resignation, like an apology for some unavoidable crime that would soon be committed. Priscilla felt her gut twist under it, a cold feeling passed her neck once more, but it had little to do with sweat. The whole room stewed in what they knew the red spot to mean. 

Nilfgaard was close.

The end, whatever it may be, was drawing near. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew ok! Ok this is fine! We are fine! It's all good! 
> 
> We knew this moment was coming sooner or later. That at some point Nilfgaard would come. It's fine. I'm fine? You're fine right? We're all fine?????
> 
> I cannot confirm or deny that Jaskier had a conversation with Geralt where he relayed his more complicated feelings about how the dynamic of their relationship in the past still affects him. I can also not confirm or deny that they both admitted their fears of the battle to come and what it's outcome will mean for everyone... I just... cannot.... confirm it... 
> 
> Ciri is a bastard and I love her! Lambert is her uncle... of course she talks like this... 
> 
> Up next: the beginning of the end


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first phase of their plan sets into motion.

_The sharp cry of steel rung out over the battlements, painted in the light of dusk._

_Priscilla let loose a blade from between her fingers and watched as it sunk into the chest of a Nilfgaard soldier. She pulled another instrument from her belt and stuck another man in the neck. She did not so much move through the battle as let the battle pass through her, soldiers charging her left and right before they would meet their ends._

_A man came at her from the left, and she pulled a long dagger from her hip. She palmed the handle, held the blade in front of her face and when her opponent was close enough, swung out_

_A crack of lightning whipped across the horizon, and suddenly the sky grew dark. Storm clouds rolled in overhead, and thunder boomed as Priscilla’s blade sunk into the meat of a soldier’s side._

_“Behind you!” cried a voice, and Priscila turned to find Ciri, sword in hand, rushing toward a mass of Nilfgaard forces. The younger woman tore through the men like a scythe through wheat_

_It started to rain. The grass of the battlements churned to mud under too many feet, and soon Priscilla was sinking in it. The soldiers turned to shadows in the downpour, and the bard began throwing blades at anything that moved._

_She could hear the thud of the blade connecting with flesh, but all she could see were dark clouds of vapor appearing and then dissipating into the storm. A black corporeal mass began to form before her, and without a thought she hurled a knife at its chest. The blade sailed straight through the cloudy figure, carving a hole through its featherlight body, before it too disappeared._

_As Priscilla watched the specter fade into the wind, a scream rang out._

_Lightning flashed and turned a fleeting light onto the battle. There on the ground meters away was Ciri’s body, splayed with the bard’s knife in her chest._

_Priscilla ran towards her._

_“CIRI!” she called out as she fell to her knees. The battle faded away as she gathered the younger woman into her lap. She turned Ciri’s head, limp on her neck, and cradled it as life fled from her features._

_“NO!” Priscilla wailed. She rested her forehead on the younger woman’s and a sob wrenched from her chest. A roll of thunder boomed overhead._

_More lightning struck and the glow of its flash illuminated the body in Priscilla’s arms once more. She lifted her forehead to get a look at Ciri’s face, but when her eyes landed on it the features had changed._

_Her own dead eyes looked back at her._

_“You were supposed to have my back.” the corpse accused._

The bard screamed.

“Priscilla!”

She awoke to hands gripping her shoulders. It took a moment for her to register that she was not on the battlements but in her bed. She was soaked by sweat, not rain. Outside her window, lightning struck in the distance.

“Priscilla.” Jaskier sighed in relief once he’d noticed her eyes had finally opened. 

They both jumped at a loud clap of thunder.

Jaskier brushed the hair off her forehead, “Breathe, my dear. It was a dream and nothing more.”

Priscilla sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady the rapid beating of her heart. 

It was good to have Jaskier there. He’d agreed to spend the night in Priscilla’s room. Yennefer had left with the rest of them that afternoon, and both of the bards were feeling the loss, Priscilla more literally in the form of a sleeping companion.

She’d shared plenty of beds with Jaskier before while on the road, so there was a comforting familiarity to this arrangement

Priscilla could feel her pulse calming and her breathing ease as she ground herself further into their reality. She was in a bed, she was under sheets, she was next to Jaskier, they were safe and dry, the battle hadn’t come for them yet, the battle hadn’t come for them yet.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jaskier asked after a stretch of silence. Priscilla wasn’t sure if there was an “it” to talk about. What could she say? That she was woefully ill prepared for a fight that could end her life, or gods forbid the lives of the people she had just carved space in her heart for? That in a lifetime of searching for love, she’d finally found something akin to the ballads she sang, and now it might be ripped from her all too quickly? Could she say that a tremendous guilt weighs on her chest because she might be partly responsible for this whole mess?

“I’m scared.” was all Priscilla could reply in a small, sleep rattled voice.

Jaskier nodded and flopped back against the bed. He let out a deflating exhale, “Me too.”

They lay together in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the storm passing over the keep.

Eskel had suggested they leave during the storm, that if they could gain some ground while Nilfgaard were likely stalled due to the weather, then they might enhance their element of surprise. Yennefer had agreed and devised some magical solution for their group to remain dry, and as soon as all of their supplies were gathered they parted from Kaer Morhen. Priscilla kissed the sorceress to send her off, and the memory of her lips still lingered in these little hours.

“Do you want to get some tea? I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep.” She finally asked Jaskier.

He smiled and nodded in affirmation, “That sounds lovely my dear.”

The two bards lit a candle lamp and padded quietly through the halls towards the kitchen. They approached the door, cautiously opened it a crack, and slipped into the darkness. Priscilla turned around with the lamp in front of her face, when suddenly lightning struck once more. Its light came in from the window, and illumitated a shadow in the corner so that it was recognizable as a body sat at the table.

“AH!” Both of the bards jumped with a yelp.

The person chuckled and reached for a match to light a candle placed in the center of the table. By its orange glow, their identity was revealed.

“Ciri?” Jaskier asked placing a hand on his chest, “by the gods.” 

“You were both so scared!” She chuckled as the two made their way to join her at the table.

“Yes well,” Priscilla set their lamp next to Ciri’s candle and crossed her arms, “you’ve fashioned yourself quite the freight sitting in the pitch dark.”

For a moment the candle flickered, and the bard could swear her own visage stared back. She blinked and it was gone.

“That wasn’t my intention,” Ciri replied defensively, “I didn’t expect anyone else to be up this late let alone down here."

“We came to get some tea.” Jaskier explained.

Ciri smiled, “I was about to start a kettle. Let me fix you some chamomile.” the mirth from earlier replaced by a sleepy softness. 

“Do you come down to the kitchens at night often?” Priscilla asked.

“Only when I can’t sleep,” Ciri shrugged as she began to light the fire, “so, yes, often.” She placed a water-filled kettle over the little flame, “Chamomile helps.”

Ciri began gathering tea supplies and three cups.

“Better make it four” came a voice from the doorway, and the younger woman almost dropped the ceramic mug in her hand.

“Triss.” she hissed as the sorceress made her way, bleary eyed, into the room. She sat down at the table across from Priscilla and folded her arms in front of her like a nest for her head.

“Can’t sleep either?” Jaskier asked to which Triss only groaned.

“I wish I’d gotten used to this by now.” Ciri sighed to herself.

“What, preparing for battle or not sleeping?” Priscilla quirked a brow.

Ciri shook her head as she poured tea into four vessels. She set the kettle down and braced her hands on the counter for a moment.

“Being left behind.” she answered, before bringing a tray of hot tea over to the table. “It was easier to brush it off when I was just a kid and I knew that I couldn’t do anything to help.” She doled out mugs and sat next to Triss, “Now, though, knowing that I _could_ be out there helping, that I could be _useful_ —”

“Who said you aren’t being useful by being here?” Jaskier asked.

“We’re plan B,” Ciri pointed out, “I’m only useful if they can’t stop Nilfgaard in their ambush. I just wish they would trust me to be plan A.”

“They just don’t want you to get hurt.” Priscilla offered.

“Shouldn’t it be my choice?” Ciri snapped, “I’m eighteen years old, I’m not a child.”

“Yes,” Triss said, lifting her head from the nest of her arms and turning to look at the young woman beside her, “you are.”

Ciri gave an offended huff.

“You are eighteen,” Triss continued, “and to a human you're of an age which passes adolescence and enters adulthood. It's an age of some maturity, and so I understand by your perspective you're grown up. But to a pack of Witchers and sorceresses who do not age, who live human lives many times over, eighteen years is a drop in the bucket. You might always be a child to them.”

“I will not accept that.” Ciri folded her arms over her chest.

“Nor should you.” Triss replied, blowing steam from her mug and taking a sip of tea.

“So what should I do about it? Sneak off and go join their little team?”

“Oh, no. Don’t do that.” Triss shook her head.

“Why not?” Ciri demanded.

“Because we need you.” Priscilla replied.

That was the truth of the matter. Ciri was well equipped enough in a fight she could hold her own in the ambush. But, if any forces found their way to the keep, it would be a death sentence for the bards.

Ciri turned to Priscilla looking stricken.

“You promised you’d have my back,” the bard continued, “I’m counting on that.”

“We need you Ciri.” Jaskier nodded.

The young woman nodded and turned to the sorceress with an expectant look.

“Well I don’t need you.” Triss replied taking another sip of tea. At the gawking expressions of the other’s around the table she added, “But I _want_ you there all the same."

Ciri’s lips twitched and she averted her gaze.

The four sat around the table and drank their tea in a relatively comfortable silence. After a while, Triss stood up and bid the others good night. Ciri was not long behind her.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” Jaskier asked as their candle lamp grew shorter.

Priscilla nodded, “Yes,” she said standing from the bench, “let’s try and get some sleep.”

The short remains of their candle held out long enough for them to make it back to the room without being thrust into darkness.

Once in her bed, Priscilla looked out towards the window, where the moon still hung high.

The rain had finally stopped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time means nothing to me rn and so its either been days or months since my last update. I hope you enjoyed this little creepy chapter! 
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who's been keeping up and to everyone who has just joined in! 
> 
> I'm not sure when my next update will be, but hopefully it will come sooner than this one did!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ambush team takes a trek down the mountain.

Long before he was Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher had dreamt of being a knight.

To be seen by the world as something gallant, admirable, a protector of the innocent; these were all ideals that followed Geralt in his early days on the path. The desire to fight with noble aim, to defend the weak from that which would harm them, to do what was right, to never choose a lesser evil—it was a folly that nearly got him killed on more than one occasion. In Blaviken the light of that once youthful dream was snuffed out.

He came to loath the fighting.

The more time he spent on the path, the more he began to question who the real monsters were. He finally settled on knowing them as those who would kill without reason. Sometimes that meant an alghoul terrorizing a village, other times it meant an alderman with a thirst for power.

As he made his way down this particular path, Geralt had complete clarity of what monsters they would find. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Are we any nearer?” Lambert whined.

“Are you a child?” Yennefer snapped.

The rain had stopped in the early hours of the morning, and now at well past mid-day the sun was laying heavy on their backs. It would be some time still before they came upon their target, and their little troupe was beginning to wallow in the heat.

“Why don’t we play a game to pass the time?” Lambert suggested. 

“This isn’t another one you picked up from a lad in Oxenfurt is it?” Eskel asked with a smirk. Geralt huffed a laugh.

“No, all of those require drink and sadly I am dry of it.” Lambert bemoaned.

“So what sort game is it then?” Vesemir inquired.

“Well,” Lambert skipped to the front of their group and turned around, walking backwards as he addressed the crowd, “It’s called ‘took a look.’ You make an observation about your surroundings and then describe one element in particular using only a single attribute. The others have to guess what you’re describing, and whoever is successful takes a turn.”

“Did you learn this game from children?” Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“I learned it from a Witcher of the cat school, actually.” Lambert sniffed.

“Are you saying you have other friends?” Eskel asked in mock disbelief.

“Are you saying you have friends at all?” Geralt joined in the ribbing.

“Do you want to play or not?” Lambert grumbled. He made a show of searching in all directions before he said, “I took a look and saw something…yellow.”

“The sun.” Eskel suggested, to which Lambert shook his head.

“A bee.” Vesemir guessed, swatting at air around his face.

“Nope!” Lambert teased, “Come now, a thought ye be clever Witchers.”

“Dandelions.” Geralt grumbled, a windswept grin on his face as he looked at the ground. The path was littered with the weeds.

“Yes!” Lambert cheered, “Your turn Geralt.”

The white-haired Witcher rolled his eyes but still looked around the scenery.

“I took a look and saw something blue.” he said.

“The sky!” Eskel replied.

“You’re not very good at this.” Yennefer remarked.

“Why don’t you take a guess then.” Eskel scoffed.

“I don’t have to guess because I know what it is, but I don’t care to join in this childish game.” Yennefer snapped.

“It’s Yennefer’s hair pin.” Vesemir guessed, pointing to where a simple blue hair stick was keeping the mass of raven hair atop her head tucked in a loose knot.

The sorceress turned in shocked betrayal at the old Witcher, who merely shrugged.

“What’s so embarrassing about a hair pin?” Eskel asked. 

“Did you get it from your _lover_?” Lambert sang.

Yennefer shot an accusatory look at Geralt who wore a cheeky little smile.

Geralt had watched Priscilla give the pin to the sorceress before they parted the day before and found the scene had filled him with an unexpected warmth. He watched Yennefer take the bard’s hand and place a kiss onto her palm. A lifetime ago she would take his own hand with such tenderness, but the well of his jealousy and self-pity came up empty as he witnessed the gesture turned on another. He was happy for Yennefer. She deserved that kind of love, and he knew he would be unable to give it, not while his own heart belonged to another.

Things with Jaskier were slow, but there was such a tangled history between them to unweave that Geralt would rather they take their time and do it right than risk breaking it all together. Still, he hoped once this fight was over, they might finally have their chance.

“Yes Vesemir, it was the pin.” the white-haired Witcher admitted, putting the sorceress out of her misery by letting the game carry on. Yennefer turned to him with a raised brow but said nothing.

“I took a look and I saw something green.” Vesemir began.

“Is it the grass?” Eskel asked.

Their little troupe carried on this way for a while before they’d all tired of talking and fell back into the ebb and flow of silence and mindless chatter. Every few hours they would stop, take a short rest, and then continue on again. It was in the early hours of the next morning, over a day and a half since they left Kaer Morhen, when all four Witchers perked up like dogs in a hunt.

“They’re close,” Eskel said into the darkness,“I can smell ‘em.”

“Less than an hour out I’d say.” Vesemir agreed.

“The plan stays the same.” Yenefer spoke with a calming certainty, “We surround them. Prevent anyone from leaving. If anything goes wrong, I send up a flare and Triss will portal here with reinforcements.”

They all nodded in their agreement and moved to continue their trek through down path. Geralt put a hand on Yennefer’s shoulder, and she stopped in her tracks. She sent a confused look the Witcher’s way and softened at his stern expression.

“What is it Geralt?” Yennefer asked, her brows drawn together.

“Be safe.” was all he could respond with.

The sorceress rolled her eyes, “I don’t know if you remember, Witcher, but I damn near ended the battle of Sodden Hill single handedly.” She crossed her arms over her chest defensively.

“And you almost died.” Geralt replied matter-of-factly.

“I can take care of myself.” she snapped.

“Don’t I know it.” Geralt huffed, “You’re the most powerful among us, but you are not invincible. Just promise me you won’t throw yourself on a sword if you can help it? Or, you know summon so much chaos that you disappear from the mortal realm for a year?”

Yennefer looked up at the Witcher with sad eyes.

“Are you lot coming or not?” Vesemir called after them where the other Witchers stood down the path.

“I can’t promise anything.” Yennefer said softly, “but I’ll try my best.”

Geralt’s lip twitched and he nodded his acceptance of her words. The two turned back towards the others and they all kept on walking.

Yennefer smiled, for she’d learned by now how to sift through Geralt’s words for their true meanings. He was saying that he cared for her, and that was always a nice thing to hear.

It did not take very long after that for them to stumble on Nilfgaard’s camp.

Dawn had begun to crest over the mountains, and the cold night waned in the gentle warmth of the rising sun. The air remained blue and the torches of the camp still burned orange. A fire in the center of the tents was reduced to embers.

The Witchers and their sorceress arrived from higher ground, and with a quiet quickness surrounded the Nilfgaardians.

It was a surprisingly smaller camp than what Geralt had anticipated, but he did not lend it much thought.

A few soldiers had been stationed at different points, but they seemed unexpectant of a fight. Deciding she’d had enough waiting, Yennefer lit her hand with a ball of fire and flung it at a pair of soldiers. Their uniforms caught and they screamed, flailing wildly to put out the flames. All of the other Nilfgaardians drew their swords and readied for a fight.

Lambert cut through a group on one side of the camp while Vesemir flattened another. Eskel threw signs at anyone who wasn’t them, lighting a few men up with a very powerful Igni, while Yennefer slung spells. She used chaos to levitate the embers of the hearth and hurled them at soldier’s eyes

Geralt danced around them all, razing the soldiers in blind spots as more emerged from tents.

There were about a hundred soldiers total if one were generous, and the five of them took the lot down in less than an hour.

The sun began to rise in earnest as the last man fell by Geralt’s hand. Only their band of misfits remained standing.

As Geralt looked around the wreckage, of which there was truly little, he could not leap in victory.

Something felt wrong.

His eyes met Yennefer’s, and he knew she felt it too. As the adrenaline of the fight wore off, the Witcher began to think about the ease with which they took the enemy down.

It was _too_ easy.

Geralt looked down at the men they had just defeated, and finally saw how young their faces looked, how unweathered by time, unmarred by battle.

They were no challenge because they weren’t meant to be.

“It was a trap.” Yennefer cursed, “Fuck!” worry bleeding freely in her tone.

Just as the words fell from her lips, a loud boom sounded overhead. It shook the birds from the trees and rang in their ears.

All four Witchers looked past the sorceress into the sky, and she saw their eyes widen in fear.

Yennefer turned around and looked up, dread falling in her chest like a stone.

There in sky was a bright red flare, glittering like a celestial body falling to the earth.

“Ciri.” Geralt growled.

They needed to get back to Kaer Morhen.

“C’mon,” Yennefer called as she began to open a portal to the keep, “we need to go NOW!”

The Witchers made their way through the fog of chaos with no complaint. There was no point in secrecy now, no need for subtlety or delicate theatre. Geralt walked through the portal, the remains of the decoy behind him.

The real battle was waiting, and for the first time in a long time, Geralt of Rivia was burning for a fight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! And so the surprisers become the... surprisees? 
> 
> Eskel said himbo rights in this little episode. 
> 
> Let me know in the comments if you saw that twist coming! 
> 
> Up next: Keeping up with Kaer Morhen...


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened at Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier had a special sort of curse.

When most folk found it necessary to distract themselves from boredom or the plague of their thoughts, they could focus on a single task and think of nothing else. Reading, taking long walks, baking bread, making shapes out of the clouds, smelling the roses, etcetera—these were all things he could do just fine in normal circumstances, but if for whatever reason his mind was in torment he was useless to do anything other than stew in it.

Perhaps this is why he found himself in the library, reading the same page of a random bestiary hundreds of times over. The words would pass through his mind like vodka spilled in water. Everything lost its shape and the letters dissolved until they were meaningless.

The bard’s mind was weighed down by a stone of worry that’d dropped when Geralt and the others left. No matter how hard he tried to think of anything else, he would always return to the sinking fear that after decades of goodbyes, this would be their last. 

“So this is where you’ve hid yourself?” A voice struck through the dark clouds of his thoughts like lightning. Jaskier looked up to its source.

“Priscilla.” His lips twitched in an attempt at a smile that ended up being more of a wince. The other bard took the seat across from him at the table he’d been stationed. He could see from the corner of his eye that the light had changed. The sun was high when he’d opened the bestiary, and it seemed to have dipped just above the mountains.

“Here,” Priscilla said, pushing a napkin-wrapped parcel across the table towards him, “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten anything.”

Jaskier unwrapped the bundle and found a bread roll, a hunk of cheese, and a plum. His stomach growled.

“Thanks.” He said in earnest as he tore into the roll.

“No worries. I know how cagey you get.” Priscilla waved it off, “Besides, I needed an excuse to find some company.”

“You don’t need an excuse to have my company,” Jaskier said around a mouthful of bread, “you know that.”

“Yeah, I know. Still.” She shrugged before turning to look out the window.

Jaskier quietly let his gaze drift from the short crop of her hair, his old chemise hanging off her shoulders, the hollows of her cheeks and the new sharpness to her chin. He closed his eyes and tried to think of the Priscilla before all of this, the woman his best friend was. He tried to think of her tossing her long hair over her shoulders, absent mindedly tucking a bit behind her ear while deep in thought. He thought of her own boisterous clothes, her silks in patterns and colors befitting a bard. He thought of her round happy cheeks flushed with wine and merriment. And yet the image was false. He could not pin down the vapor of her memory when her present was sitting a few feet away. Giving up on trying to see into the past, he noted her posture. There was a far-away look in her eyes and he knew, even with all that had changed, how to read her. 

“A silver for your thoughts?” Jaskier asked, and Priscilla turned from the window to look back at him. She did nothing but stare with a deep intensity. In that moment he realized if there was one thing that reconciled the two Priscilla’s in his mind, it was her eyes. She could always slay you with a look.

“You know you’re my best friend right?” Priscilla asked. Her eyes were rimmed red, making the blue of them colder.

Jaskier’s eyes widened, “Yes of course,” he assured her, “as you are mine.”

Priscilla nodded, seemingly satisfied with that response.

“As I’m sure you know, we poets are often mistaken for false sincerity.” She spoke to the window, “we scent our words with so much perfume that people often take it for a trick. That we’re hiding true meaning or intentions with flowery language, or that we use grand statements to manipulate or deceive. That bards are performers who never turn off their act.”

“The world is full of cynics.” Jaskier agreed. 

Priscilla turned back to him once more, “I’m afraid that I have held back words for fear they might be mistaken as insincere.” 

“To me?” Jaskier asked in confusion. Surely they didn’t speak often of the severity of their friendship, but he’d always felt it understood how much they cared for one another. It was an unconditional love he’d scarcely felt for his own blood relatives. 

Priscilla nodded, “Amongst others.”

Realization dawned on the bard.

“You love her,” Jaskier asked, “don’t you?”

Priscilla huffed a humorless laugh, “She’s an all-powerful sorceress who _I think_ might be immortal. Love can’t come as quickly for her as it does me. It’s not yet been a month. A drop of rain in the ocean for her, I’m sure.”

“But you do.” Jaskier pressed, “Love her, that is.”

Priscilla shrugged, “How can I know if it is love?” She bit on the tip of her thumb, “The circumstances with which this flower bloomed are abnormal to say the least. How do I know it isn’t just lust or infatuation inflated by the pressure of this whole cocked-up, life-or-death scenario?”

“You don’t.”

“And how can I be sure that, even if what I _am_ feeling now is love, it will remain once the danger is gone?”

“You can’t.” Jaskier shrugged, “and yet…"

“And yet.” Priscilla agreed.

“How about this,” Jaskier leaned forward, “you won’t be able to find such answers now, not with danger still lurking, and especially not with the sorceress presently elsewhere. But, after this whole cocked-up, life-or-death scenario is all over and done with, when the mist has finally cleared, you can ask yourself these questions again. If you still feel the same, you can know that you love her and _tell_ her. No doubt. No fear.”

“I tell her.” Priscilla repeated. “But what if she doesn’t feel the same? What if—” she ran her fingers through her hair as if she were tucking a phantom strand behind her ear, “What if I don’t get the chance?”

“Well,” Jaskier sighed, “then you let your heart break like a poet.”

Priscilla lips twitched, “And what about you?”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing when this is all over.” Jaskier grinned and knew it to be true.

Priscilla reached a hand across the table and took Jaskier’s with it. She leaned forward and kissed his knuckles, then leaned back and gave it a squeeze. Jaskier returned the gesture and kept his hand in hers.

They let go at the sound of footsteps.

“There you both are.” Triss said as she walked up to their table, Ciri by her side. Ciri took a seat next to Jaskier and Triss took the chair beside Priscilla.

“What have you been doing hiding all day in _here_?” Ciri asked, “Vesemir couldn’t even get me to stay for a few hours.”

“Just talking.” Priscilla shrugged.

“Ooh!” Triss clapped, “any gossip? I’ve been going out of my mind all day I could use a laugh.” 

“No gossip I’m afraid,” Jaskier replied, “We haven’t exactly been out in society in a while.”

Triss winced, “Sorry.”

“What about just a story?” Ciri suggested, “I’m so close to going out of my mind, it could be about anything and it would be better than being alone with my thoughts.

The bards considered this.

“Well there was that time in Tretogor where I had to disguise as a man.” Priscilla suggested to Jaskier.

“Oh, yeah, that was brilliant.” He agreed.

“Yes please! Tell that one.” Ciri pleaded. 

“Okay,” Priscilla turned to Ciri and Triss, “this was back when we were traveling as a duo. We’d been summoned by a court in Redania to perform a concert. They knew of Jaskier from his earlier days. Being from the area himself, I suppose he’d garnered a sort of local celebrity.”

“Hey!” Jaskier exclaimed, “My celebrity was more than local!”

Priscilla rolled her eyes with fondness, “Anyway, with the war being what it was, and bards being seen as more and more a luxury than a common service, we took no lumps in traveling so far to perform. We also didn’t pay too close attention to the invitation. You see, this was from a time when I was still using a stage name— Callonetta.”

“You had a stage name?” Ciri asked.

“Technically _Jaskier_ is a stage name.” Triss pointed out

“Am I telling a story or not?” Priscilla clipped.

“Sorry.” Ciri whispered.

“Continue.” Triss nodded.

Priscilla sighed, “So we get to the court and Jaskier introduces himself by his full name, so I introduce myself as Priscilla. The courtier looked us over and then asked where Callonetto was. I asked him, ‘do you mean Callonetta?’ but he was indignant that he meant _Callonetto_. Before I could correct him and reveal myself, the courtier explains that he was thrilled to find a duet of two men, for he so loathed the sound of women singing. We quickly realized what had happened, though later on we would find the written invitation and noted it did, in fact, request a Callonetto.”

“Although he thoroughly turned my stomach, we needed the courtier’s money.” Priscilla continued, “So we promised that while Callonetto would be arriving separately, he would certainly be there to perform. We were led to a suite in the castle, and once alone we scurried to produce a disguise.”

“Luckily I had brought extra silks.” Jaskier offered.

“Yes,” Priscilla laughed, “but only one doublet and trouser set also came with a cap, and so it had to do. You see, my hair was quite long back then so I had to twist it up under the bonnet to complete the ruse. I took my mascara and brushed my upper lip and chin, darkened my brows, and by the time they called for us to come to the hall I was transformed.”

“And were you caught by the courtier?” Ciri asked with wide eyes.

“Oh no!” Priscilla chuckled, “In fact, he commented on how much sweeter my tone of voice was than a woman’s. In the end we got our share of coin and left before I could dismember the bastard. Lady luck was on our side that day.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed in agreement, “She seemed to be with us a lot back then.”

The two bard's exchanged a fond look at the memory before Ciri demanded another tale of the their escapades... and then another. Before long the day turned to night.

The four sat around the table telling tales of adventure, of trickery, swordplay, monsters, and men. It strangely did the trick to keep thoughts of what they couldn’t control at bay. Any time one of their minds would begin to wander to a certain Witcher or sorceress, another story would begin.

Eventually they all fell asleep sat around that old library table.

Triss was the first to wake that next morning, well before dawn. Moonlight still poured in through the window. She stood from the chair and stretched the soreness from her body. Though still not gone from the haze of sleep, she took notice that the air had taken on a strange hue, a sort of florescent glow.

 _The map_ , she realized

She rolled her neck and walked to the other side of the library where the enchanted map lay. She glazed over the glowing dotted trap-marks and was satisfied by their uniform color save for the few red indications initially set off what was then a few days past. The sorceress was about to walk back to her rooms to get some rest in a more comfortable, horizontal position, when she saw a flicker of light in the corner of her eye.

She turned her head and noticed that in the field of what had just been a uniform yellow, a lone marker had turned red. It was a pin on the opposite side to the other red marks, independent to the cluster that represented the assumed Nilfgaard forces. And, unlike the other cluster, which had begun to form from the outer ring of traps, this red mark glowed just at the edge of Kaer Morhen’s borders.

The sorceress hovered a hand over the mark, trying to detect any faulty magic as her heart lept into her throat. Her fingers trembled as she sensed nothing amiss, and when she pulled her palm away, a scream shot from her mouth.

Triss stared at the map, frozen in horror.

“What is it?” Ciri called as she shuffled over to the sorceress, woken by her sound of distress.

“Are you alright?” Priscilla asked as she too made her way over, Jaskier trailing closely behind, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Triss pointed to the map, where the new red mark had been triggered, and a cold terror stilled the air. Like a pox, the red mark had spread—two, three, now four red marks appeared.

“They’re here.” Ciri croaked.

“Everyone,” Triss turned around to face the other three, “arm yourselves quickly but carefully.” she steeled herself, “Do not forgo your leathers. Move to your designated stations and prepare yourselves.”

Ciri placed a hand on Triss’ shoulder and nodded, “Be safe.”

Triss pulled her into a quick hug before the younger woman ran off to follow orders.

“Triss,” Priscilla called holding the sorceress’ gaze, “Be careful.”

“I will,” she nodded at the two bards, “Now go!”

Priscilla grabbed Jaskier’s hand and pulled him out of the room. She looked over her shoulder once more and with a final look to Triss, the two vanished from sight.

Triss closed her eyes and drew a grounding breath. She exhaled through her nose before moving swiftly towards the upper battlements. As she looked out towards the thick forest beyond, she could not see any men, but she could feel that they were there.

Dawn had finally come, and the sun began to rise in earnest. The world was beautiful and still in a way the sorceress knew would not last.

Triss lifted an arm above head like she was bearing a torch. She craned her fingers like talons, and with one great wave of chaos sent up a flare.

The softness of the morning was torn by the bright red fire. Triss watched as it sparked and glittered, suspended above the clouds, but could not stay long enough to ponder if the message was received. She quickly made her way back to her room to prepare herself for the battle that was sure to come.

It was all she could do to pray that their backup was still alive to fight.

If not, they would follow soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little bit longer to make up for the fact that I haven't updated in a min. Its been harder for me to motivate myself to actually sit down and write, but I want to finish this story and I want y'all to have a good ending so I'm trucking along!
> 
> I also wanted to squeeze in some more character service before the action started revving up! 
> 
> As always, comments are especially appreciated! Let me know what you think of this chapter or what you hope to see in the next one as the big battle begins!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle at Kaer Morhen pt. 1

It was like dropping a match in an alchemist’s lab. The impact was sudden and startling.

Ciri and Priscilla stood together on the lower grounds, their bodies clad in leather armor and metal plates. Priscilla wore a harness fitted with blades crossed over her chest. She had daggers strapped at her hips and a pair of twin knives were tucked inside her boots by her shins.

Ciri looked ever the Witcher in her leathers with a sword on her back. She too had a dagger on her waist and wore a silver mail over her chest that caught the light like dragon scales. In the early sun, she seemed to glow. 

For a few brief moments, the two women simply stood in anticipation, looking out at the forest shroud by fog, listening for the sound of distant movement.

For those minutes, the world was still.

Then, with no pretense, a snare in their periphery combusted into a purple smoke. Screams of agony rose from the billowing mess, and then it was as if a seal was broken, and Nilfgaard was on them.

Thatches of their forces would catch themselves in the various snares of magic Yennefer and Triss had set, setting groups of soldiers ablaze or dousing them in some fluid or other that made skin melt like candles in the sun. Handfuls of men at a time dropped from where they stood as if they were never there.

Though, the two women could hardly take note of the macabre theater the sorceresses devised. Whatever men were lucky enough to evade the snares began charging at them with swords raised high.

Priscilla and Ciri moved so that their backs almost touched. They appeared like one body—a four-armed beast with blades for claws.

“I have your back.” Ciri called over her shoulder as she pulled her sword free.

“As I have yours.” Priscilla responded, picking a blade from the strap on her chest and holding it between two fingers.

A soldier came for Ciri and, with a few well practiced moves, she brought him down.

Another man came from Priscilla’s side, but before he could come even a few meters away from her, she let loose a blade that pierced through his neck like a pin through a cushion.

The two women danced this way, picking off soldiers like weeds. 

This only lasted for so long before the amount of active snares began to wane. Nilfgaard forces began to climb over the wall of their fallen. Piles of ashen flesh and dismembered bodies, that Priscilla could not think of long before her stomach would turn, easily gave way to the heavy boots of other soldiers.

The two women readied their weapons, though they were vastly outnumbered.

Just as the first of the next wave of men was about to crash into them, an arrow cut through the air, landing in one soldier’s eye.

Ciri looked up and saw Jaskier now readied with a crossbow in hand, loading it up with another arrow.

Next to him was Triss with her hands poised like a harpist. She clenched her fingers into a fist, and the ground beneath a group of soldiers’ feet swallowed them whole.

The job the snares had once done from the ground was now taken up by the bard and the sorceress on the upper battlements. They would thin out the forces to make combat more manageable by Ciri and Priscilla. Though, if they were not positioned on a mountain, keeping the stream of force steady and thin, they would be overwhelmed regardless.

Jaskier took care to make each aim precise, and so his shots were true, if a bit slow.

“Why are you taking so long to shoot?” Triss called out as she sunk another thatch of men under the earth.

“I don’t have many arrows!” Jaskier bit back defensively as he took aim again, “I need each one to count.” He let loose the crossbow’s trigger and watched as the arrow sunk into a soldier’s neck.

As Jaskier bent to get another arrow, Triss held out her hand. Her palm hovered over the bucket, and the arrows multiplied.

Jaskier picked one up and nodded back to her, “Right. Magic.”

Triss shook her head, “Just tell me if you run low again. Now shoot at anything that moves!”

The bard nodded before loading the crossbow once more.

Arrows began to shower down like rain, but Ciri could hardly notice.

She had been engaged in combat with one soldier who would not fall or relent. He was much larger than even Geralt, and though she had been doing an alright job of dodging his blows, she could not find an opening to strike at him. Ciri knew that this particular match would tire soon, and either he would wear down and allow her an opportunity to take the offensive, or she would grow sloppy in fatigue and he might actually land his blade on something vital.

He backed her against the mountain side, and she could feel the energy shift around them as held up his sword. She could not evade the swing of his arm but held her sword up to block the blow as best she could. Their two blades met with a loud clang as Ciri pushed her weight against his. Her strength wavered a moment, and the bladed jumped closer towards her neck.

Then, suddenly, the force of his blow lessened, and she was able to push his body to the ground. As I fell she noticed the blade lodged just above his ear.

Ciri looked up and saw Priscilla a few feet away, a new blade in hand. The other woman caught her eye and nodded a reassurance.

_I have your back._

Priscilla flicked her wrist and the blade in her hand struck another man down. A soldier charged at her from the side opposite Ciri, and the bard pulled one of her daggers free from its holder at her side. She held it in a defensive posture in front of her face, like a mantis’ arm ready to strike down prey.

Priscilla ducked from the soldier’s blow and swung her arm out to pierce the back of his neck. She pulled the blade free and swung in in her fingers so that the hilt was now postured like a conductor’s wand. She stood side-face and positioned the dagger so that it was poised against her chest, the point directed forward. With her other hand she grabbed for a blade and held it out farther in front of her body.

Ciri came up next to her with her sword drawn in one hand and her dagger gripped in the other. The two stared out at the battle before them. They watched as arrows pierced the air and struck soldiers down. They watched the ground swallow them. They watched the last of the snares trigger and those Nilfgaardians reduced to the vapor.

It would not be enough.

More men approached them, and Priscilla let the blade in her outstretched hand loose.

Ciri cut down one man, then another, but more were soon to follow. 

For the first time since their battle started, death felt sure.

Priscilla reached for another blade from her chest in desperation as more soldiers bled into the battlements from the forest. In an instant, about ten soldiers materialized and rushed towards them. The two women steeled themselves, readying for what would seem a fight to stave off death for a little longer, when the ground below the Nilfgaardian’s feet burst into flames, drowning the men in the inferno.

“I didn’t realize Yen put snares this close!” Ciri called out in bewilderment.

“She didn’t.” Came a voice from beyond the smoke.

Ciri and Priscilla moved around the pyre to see Eskel, hands raised to form the sign of igni. Beyond the Witcher was a portal, opened in the middle of the grounds. From it walked Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, and finally Yennefer, all poised and ready for a fight.

“Geralt! Yen! You’re here!” Ciri shouted, readying her sword for another attack.

“It was a trap.” Geralt growled, cutting down a soldier in his path, “We came as soon as we realized.”

“I’m relieved you two are alive.” Yennefer called to Ciri and Priscilla. She lit the tips of her fingers with a purple flame and flung the fire at a nearby soldier, watching as the chainmail on his chest melted over him until he dropped to the ground, writhing like a fish. 

“I’m as surprised as you are to be honest!” Priscilla japed back, throwing a blade at an angle such that it curved around Yennefer’s face and hit the soldier behind her. “It was looking pretty dim for a moment there!”

An arrow flew overhead and lodged in a man’s back.

“There we go Jaskier!” Vesemir cheered before plunging a sword through a Nilfgaardian’s chest.

Geralt glanced up at the battlements and saw that, sure enough, Jaskier was letting arrows loose from a crossbow with deadly precision. His lips quirked up for a moment before her returned his mind to the task at hand: killing the bastards.

“Something sill doesn’t make sense.” Eskel commented as he lunged with his sword raised, “How did they know that we would try and ambush them?” He tore an arm from a torso, “Wasn’t the whole point that the magic wouldn’t be detected by us?”

“I can’t wrap my head around it either.” Yennefer called as she sent out an offensive blaze of fire.

“That’s always been your problem Yennefer.” A stranger’s voice boomed over the sounds of agony and wrung steel. A blast of chaos hit the sorceress like a blow to the gut.

“Yen!” Priscilla called as Yennefer stumbled. She steadied herself and fell into a defensive stance, chaos crackling at her fingertips.

“You always think you’re cleverer than your opponent.” The stranger called out, “You think yourself better, smarter, stronger than anyone else you come across.” A woman dressed in grey robes emerged out of the fray, her arms splayed by her sides. “But you aren’t, are you?”

“Fringilla.” Yennefer’s eyes hardened and she strengthened her stance.

“Today,” a cruel smile like a snarl curled over Fringilla’s features, “you’ll pay for you arrogance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fringilla: *waiting in the bushes as her men throw themselves on traps that liquify them* *pops out for dramatic affect once Yennefer arrives* *speaks fluent cartoon villain*
> 
> The battle continues! 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle at Kaer Morhen, pt 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood, mild gore.

Jaskier watched from above as the portal opened onto the battlefield below. He watched as Geralt of Rivia stormed through it like a caged animal set free to the wild. At seeing the Witcher alive he averted his gaze. He allowed himself only a momentary brush with relief before picking up another arrow and taking aim.

The battle would not wait for his heart to sing.

Jaskier’s arrows pierced through the air. He’d been taking aim at a soldier who was creeping up toward Yennefer when he noticed a shift in the wind. A prickle of energy ghosted over the back of his neck and then he saw a new player on the field. A woman dressed in grey, looking fearsome and wicked, seeming to address the violet-eyed sorceress.

“Fringilla.” Triss cursed next to him.

“The sorceress with Nilfgaard?” Jaskier asked as he struck down his target.

“The very same.” Triss snarled, switching the formation of her hands from those of a harpist’s to an organ-player’s. She reached out into the ether, and with great effort pulled the chaos around her taut. The clouds began to churn in the sky, and the clear morning brewed into something muddled and ominous.

A fat cloud formed above the battle, and thunder growled in its stomach. Flashes of light burst inside the mist as the rest of the land was cast in shadow.

Jaskier, distracted from his shooting, gazed up at the forming storm.

“Triss,” he muttered as he looked on in awe, “be careful you don’t drain yourself.” 

“I know what I’m doing.” the sorceress snapped. Rain began to fall.

“I sure hope so.” Jaskier picked up another arrow and took aim at a soldier. Before he could let his fingers loose, a bolt of lightning cracked with surprising precision and struck down his intended target.

Jaskier’s eyes widened, “Right. Well—”

Another bolt of lightning shattered the sky and caused a group of soldiers to fissure, fire licking up at their boots before the drizzle could put it out.

Jaskier cleared his throat and silently readied his bow. Before he could shoot it, he was once more interrupted, this time by a large forcefield materializing in the middle of the grounds. The membrane shimmered with energy. In the center of the transparent dome, Yennefer and Fringilla stood mere feet apart. The scales of power seemed to teeter between them, neither one getting the chance to fully overpower the other.

“This isn’t going to work.” Triss said, looking out at the ever-growing forces of opposition. The storm faded as quickly as it appeared. “Your arrows can’t do enough damage on their own, and I can’t summon enough lightning to make more than a dent.”

“The fact that you can summon lightning in itself is quite impressive, though.” Jaskier offered.

Triss tried not to puff up too much, “I have an idea.” She asked, “Do you trust me?”

Jaskier nodded, “Of course.”

“Aim an arrow right there,” Triss pointed out towards a group of Nilfgaard soldiers encroaching onto where Eskel and Lambert were fighting, “but don’t fire until I say.”

Jaskier did as he was told and tried not to flinch as he felt the sorceress’ breath tickle the shell of his ear.

A surge of power flowed over his arm, and then suddenly the tip of his arrow crackled with charge.

“Fire.” Triss whispered into his ear, and Jaskier let loose the arrow. It landed in the ground just before the soldier’s feet, and the grass they walked through burst into flames.

“Ooohh ho ho, I like this.” Jaskier thrilled at the power he’d just wielded as he loaded another arrow onto the crossbow. Triss lifter her hand as if plucking a thread from a tapestry and Jaskier felt the flow of power rush through him once more.

“Fire.” Triss commanded.

The arrow struck a man through the heart before it detonated and tore his body to shreds. 

A speck of flesh hit Eskel in the shoulder.

“Ugh!” he groaned as he used the hilt of his sword to brush it off, before engaging in another combat.

“This fight is definitely grizzlier than the last.” Lambert called out as he thrust with his broadsword.

An arrow flew over their heads and landed feet away from where the youngest Witcher was fighting. In the split second that he recognized the zing of power peeling off the arrowhead, Lambert had just enough time to kick the soldier he’d come to blows with in the stomach and watch him fall to the ground, before taking a few leaps out of the way just in time for the detonation to kick the ground up behind his heels.

“Watch it!” He shouted in the general direction of the upper grounds.

“Sorry!” came a faint reply.

Lambert raised his sword and turned back toward the fray, “That bard almost turned me to mincemeat with his carelessness.” he snapped at Eskel

“Who’s to say he was being careless?” Eskel snarked as he hit a soldier with an aard sign. “Triss is up there with him, and if I were them I’d take this as an opportunity to blow you up and call it an accident.”

“Hmm.” Lambert groaned as he moved to block and redirect an attack.

“Don’t do that.” Eskel cast another aard sign at a soldier sneaking behind Lambert, “You sound like Geralt.”

“What about me?” Geralt called as the fight he was engaged in pushed him closer to the others.

“Geralt your boyfriend tried to kill me!” Lambert whined before ducking and rolling underneath his opponent and striking him from behind.

“Yet it seems he was unsuccessful.” Geralt drawled as he pinned a soldier to the ground, pulled his dagger from his belt, and stuck him in the chest, before rolling off and getting back to his feet.

“Oh come off it you two.” Lambert blocked a blow with the flat of his sword, “You’d miss me too much.”

“Oi!” Vesemir called from across the grounds, “Is this a fight or a tea party?!”

The trio fell silent and continued on with their combat.

Geralt tried not to think about anything else after that. He wouldn’t dare look over to where Yennefer was in the heat of her own battle, let alone find where Ciri was likely in the thick of it herself

Ciri, who was at the heart of all of this. Ciri, who was at the center of his world now. He knew she had to fight, but he could not watch.

And then there was Jaskier, up somewhere Geralt could not see even if he did turn his head, fighting against his own nature to come to their aid. Jaskier who would stay by Geralt’s side until death lay claim to one of them.

There on the battlements were everyone Geralt held close. He stood to lose everything, and so he dared not look, he dared not think of them. He held his sword firmly and let the rest melt away. All there could be was himself and the fight.

A Nilfgaardian soldier came up on his left, and he blasted them down with a sign. Another came from his right and he swung out with his broadsword. He cut through the battlefield with dancer’s feet, as if he were taking down reeds to find his way through a marsh.

He could not stop to analyze the scene around him, only worked through the danger on muscle memory. If he happened to block an assailant from striking down one of his brothers, it was because his body knew to protect them. If he happened to move to cover the ground just before where Ciri and Priscilla were fighting, it was the magnetic force of their bond that drew him there.

He couldn’t think, because to think would’ve been to feel, and to feel then would have meant death. It was what he’d learned all his life, and it was more relevant now than ever.

Geralt’s mind was so focused on what was in front of him that he didn’t notice what was behind him. A soldier with the build and stature of a bear grabbed Geralt from behind. One arm wrapped tightly around the Witcher’s chest, pinning his sword-arm to his side. The other arm held a sword to Geralt’s neck

His instincts gave him only a moment to block the blade from cutting into his skin. Then it was a test of his strength against the other man’s as he tried to push the sword away and break free from the hold.

Geralt knew that he was stronger than his opponent. He knew if this were a normal fight, the soldier would be flat on his back by now. But this was no normal fight. He’d been awake for two days and fought one battle already. Now he was hours into another battle, a harder battle, and his energy was starting to slip. A man he would have easily overpowered two days ago was a man now his equal, and the longer Geralt stood still, the more the waves of fatigue crashed over him.

He pushed against the force of the soldier’s arm and sweat formed at his brow as he felt his strength close to slipping.

As the blade kissed his neck once more, drawing a shallow line of blood below his chin, Geralt felt the air strike his cheek like a whip, and then the pressure was gone.

Geralt turned with his sword readied and saw the soldier crumpled to the ground, the blade that was just against his skin fallen next to him, and an arrow shaft pinned through his eye.

Geralt finally cast his gaze toward the upper battlements, where he saw, nearly eclipsed by the cliff, the standing form of Jaskier. The morning sun shroud his shoulders, and with the outline of the bow in his hand, the bard looked like the elf he was oft compared to in beauty.

The image was shattered by the sudden burn of a blade slicing through his side

“Geralt!” He heard a voice call in the distance, but he paid it little mind as he turned and cut down the soldier responsible

Spots prickled in the Witcher’s eyes as he looked out at the battle in a daze.

The forcefield that surrounded Yennefer and Fringilla pulsed with energy and caught him in its hypnotic trance. Waves of chaos rippled on its membrane like seafoam washing against the shore.

“Enough!” came a shout from beyond its walls, and then with a flash, the forcefield expanded until it popped. Chaos blew in all directions like a gust of wind.

The energy passed around Geralt, and when it cleared he could see only one sorceress standing where there had once been two. Before he could register who it was, the Witcher collapsed. The warm mud seemed to swallow him up.

Like the sun were a candle that had been blown out, the world fell into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witcher down! 
> 
> Its been a minute since the last update... battle scenes are hard! Esp with so many characters at play! But this story is coming to its end, however slowly. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Up next: A battle at kaer morhen pt 3~


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Battle at Kaer Morhen pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood and gore! Violence!

Yennefer wasn’t sure why she put up the forcefield in the first place.

In the moment it felt like the thing to do. Either it would keep soldiers out or contain her and Fringilla’s chaos to minimize their combined havoc. With the other sorceress’ proclivity for poisons, it at least ensured that Fringilla would not be able to attack with them without it effecting her as well.

However, with every blast vibrating against its walls, causing an echo-chamber of energy to reverberate around the two sorceresses, it felt, in retrospect, like a misstep. If only Yennefer could’ve gained footing long enough to take it down. Unfortunately, Fringilla’s blows were making that difficult.

“This is a pitiful performance.” Fringilla grew a flame in her hand and aimed it at Yennefer’s face, “It’s a wonder Tissaia ever favored you.”

Yennefer ducked out of the way of the blast. She placed her hand to the ground, felt for the energy that rushed around the deeper roots of the foliage, and held on. As she rose to her feet she pulled the energy with her, and from the ground burst a heavy root like a cockatrice tail.

Yennefer blocked the next ball of fire with the root, before snapping her wrist, causing it to crack like a whip over Fringilla’s shoulder.

The other sorceress cried out as it tore open her skin, but she blocked the next blow with a blaze of fire

As Yennefer moved closer to Fringilla, the root continued to pull itself from the ground, growing in length with every step until it was as long as the forcefield was wide. Yennefer had Fringilla backed toward the other edge of the static walls. She wrapped the root around the other sorceress’ middle like a fist and lifted her above the ground.

“How did you know about the ambush?” Yennefer demanded as Fringilla squirmed in her hold, “How did you know we would find out about the sigil?”

Fringilla let out a manic laugh, “The brandings were in the shape of knots!” She grinned through her struggle, “We might as well have written you a letter and attached it to a hawk! But where would the fun be in that? I know you must think me rather dull, but it brought me such delight torturing those little bards.”

Yennefer snarled and tightened the root’s grip around Fringilla’s middle until she wheezed.

“You know,” the other sorceress’s burned with a sort of darkness, “I’m not usually one for music. I like the quiet. But there was something quite enchanting about the way they’d sing. Especially the little blonde one. With every crack of the whip against her back she’d belt the sweetest little melody, and I’d—”

“I’ll kill you!” Yennefer growled, letting the root snake up toward Fringilla’s neck like a vine, coiling around her throat. The other sorceress gasped for air as her body was squeezed tighter and tighter. Just when Yennefer thought it might be done, an orange glow came from within the knot around Fringilla’s waist, and in a second the root burst into flames, dropping Fringilla to the ground.

She wheezed as she caught her breath, swiped out with one leg and sending a desperate wave of flames out over the ground. 

“Look at the state of yourself Fringilla.” Yennefer got back in her fighting stance, “Who was it you were calling the pitiful display?”

Fringilla moved to her feet and readied herself. “You.” She hissed before punching out into the air and sending a wave of fire out of her fist

Yennefer tried to move out of the way, but Fringilla’s fist followed her, spraying fire like a dragon circling its prey. 

Before the flames could catch up with her, Yennefer stopped and blocked the rain of fire with a blast of wind. It threw Fringilla’s balance off long enough for Yennefer to snuff out the flames. When Fringilla recovered her stance and brought forth another blast of fire, Yennefer cut it off just as fast. 

The two sorceresses danced this way for a while, seeming to any who witnessed as if they were sparring.

Tiring of this, the next time Fringilla shot a blast of fire at her, Yennefer did not block the flames by snuffing them out, but instead met them with a fire of her own.

Where the two streams of flames met was a ball of inferno, like the sun come down to the earth.

“End this now Fringilla!” Yennefer demanded over the roar of the flames.

“This will end when you are dead!” Fringilla called back, “And when that girl is finally Nilfgaard’s to use.

“You will never get to her!” Yennefer cried, “I will die a thousand death’s before you touch her!”

“So be it!” Fringilla pushed her flames harder against Yennefer’s, and Yennefer returned the pressure in kind.

Soon it was as if the whole forcefield was made of fire, with a sorceress at either end. The heat of it was worse than at Sodden, the membrane of chaos trapping it like an oven. Beyond just the heat was the deadly reality of the forces of nature. Fire, like chaos, does not come from nothing. Air feeds fire the same way it feeds the lungs, and there was only so much air left between them.

“Fringilla,” Yennefer gasped, “We need to stop this.”

“I don’t need to do anything.” Fringilla panted.

“We’ll both suffocate long before the fire dies out. Then we’ll both be dead and this will all be for nothing.” Yennefer tried to reason.

“Or I’ll triumph, and my fire will consume you,” Fringilla laughed hoarsely, “and then only you’ll be dead.”

Fringilla pushed harder against Yennefer’s flame, and the balance of power began to tip in her favor.

“Fringilla!” was all Yennefer could plead as she began to slip, her breaths pulling sharp and shallow, sweat dappling her brow. 

“Do you think yourself better than me now?” Fringilla bit, “Are you so arrogant as to think it, even as you struggle to cling to life?” the sorceress pressed further, “Or, do you finally yield that you are _nothing_ but a _piglet_?”

Yennefer closed her eyes and tried to push back, but her body felt heavy. 

“I know who you were before all of this Yennefer.” Fringilla spat, “I know how you were unloved and unwanted. And, maybe I could feel pity, maybe I could show you mercy now, but I won’t.”

Yennefer tried to reach out to feel the chaos of the forcefield. The more she reached for it, the more Fringilla’s fire overwhelmed hers.

“I want to watch you die knowing that I bested you.” Fringilla pressed so that now her flames were mere inches from Yennefer’s face, “I want your last thoughts to be how you failed to defeat me. I want you to know that what happens next to your princess will be on your hands.”

 _Ciri._ Yennefer’s mind chanted. _Ciri_. 

Suddenly Yennefer felt the connection to the forcefield click and the power of its chaos thrummed through her. 

_Ciri_. Her heart beat.

“Enough!” Yennefer shouted, and she forced their combined fire to burst with a flash. The forcefield expanded with its surge of energy, until eventually it popped. Chaos blew in all directions like a storm and Yennefer collapsed.

As the atmosphere stilled itself, Fringilla walked over to Yennefer’s prone body.

“Yen!” came a horror-stricken scream from somewhere else on the battlefield. It only fueled Fringilla’s ego.

Blood caked in Yennefer’s raven hair, and ran down her temple, her neck. Her clothes were scorched, and burns speckled the skin beneath them.

Fringilla kneeled down beside her, “I told you you’d pay.” she said, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She took that bloodied hand and brushed the hair off of Yennefer’s forehead.

For a moment, the sorceress was swallowed up in her success. The battle happening around her was trivial to the pleasant burn of victory she felt in her blood. Nothing mattered, not the piles of dead soldiers, not the screams of agony from the men who remained, none of it. She looked up at the sky and the sun warmed her cheeks.

She was the most powerful sorceress in the continent.

The cruel pain of a blade plunged into her stomach, and her eyes blew wide with shock. Fringilla looked down to where a dagger poked out of her belly with a hand attached to its hilt. Her eyes followed the hand up an arm and found it belonged to Yennefer of Vengerberg.

Yennefer’s eyes were cold and hard like stone.

Fringilla tried to say something, but when she opened her mouth, only blood poured out.

“You will never hurt my family again.” Yennefer muttered in a strained voice.

She twisted the knife and Fringilla screamed.

“Fuck you, hag.” Yennefer spat before pulling the dagger completely out. Fringilla collapsed in a lifeless heap next to Yennefer, her eyes still wide open.

The battle around them seemed to quiet some, the sound of swords and arrows lessening. Yennefer held onto consciousness the best she could, picking out the birds chirping in the trees. The wind rustling the grass.

She thought she heard someone call her name, but it crashed against her ear like the ocean during a storm.

Yennefer looked out and stared into the sun until she saw spots. She tried to fight the current of fatigue from carrying her under but found it a futile effort.

“Fuck.” she coughed, dropping the dagger and her arm above her head.

She closed her eyes and let the storm wash over her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH! OK! And thus finishes the battle chapter trilogy. 
> 
> I know especially for my friends who only play the games, this might seem OOC for Fringilla, but the way I'm reading her character here, coming from the games and the Netflix show, is that she was on her own sort of redemption arc. Only, instead of a redemption of character, it was a redemption of power/status. What might have started as a search for Ciri became something different because of Yennefer's involvement. 
> 
> We're not done yet, but we are quite close. Only 2 chapters left! 
> 
> As always let me know what you think in the comments <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *gets Nora Jones CD queued* the aftermath...

They’d burned the bodies by nightfall.

It was one thing to experience such a gruesome battle, but it was all the more harrowing to physically collect the dead, stack them in tall piles, and set them alight. It had to be done, though, or else a different breed of monsters would be on them. Such carnage would look like a picnic to a bear, and they would have defeated Niflgaard only to meet their ends by some ravenous alghouls they were too tired to fight.

It was miracle enough they all survived.

A little worse for wear in some cases, Geralt and Yennefer were in particular need of a heeling sleep, but overall their little pack survived.

With Fringilla dead, and what seemed like a whole battalion defeated, the war would likely fizzle out soon enough. Certainly within a year’s time the world would find itself at peace, or at least with a glimpse of life before Nilfgaard first took aim at power over the continent. Soon enough, the world would once more be in need of bardic service.

Jaskier knew he would not be so quick to answer that call. Not this time.

In the cold light of the morning, Jaskier looked out from a balcony over the battlements. The distant smoke of the dying pyre blew away over the mountains. The bitter scent of death and ash still clung to the air, but Jaskier could no longer detect it. He leaned over the edge of the balcony, rest his head on his arms, and bid himself to remember Kaer Morhen, even in its solemn state. He took in the mountains and the ever-rising sun and tried to force the memory into solidity. 

He didn’t know if he’d ever get to see it again.

“I’m surprised you’re awake.”

Jaskier turned around in shock at the voice behind him. There standing in the doorway was Geralt, the loose tunic over his torso revealing the barest hint of a bandage. His skin was slightly more pallid than usual, but he wore a soft grin over his face, and his eyes, though sunken and purpled, glowed with an inner light. He looked almost happy.

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s eyes widened as the other man crossed the room, “You—” the bard stammered, “you should be in bed!”

“I’m up after first light,” Geralt grinned, “that’s more sleep than I’ve gotten in weeks.”

“All the more reason you shouldn’t be up.” Jaskier glanced down at Geralt’s side where he knew the tunic fabric covered a wound. A memory flashed of the bard holding the Witcher in his lap, blood passing through his fingertips, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m fine.” Geralt reassured, placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “It mostly healed last night, probably a mix of Triss’ magic and my mutagens. I’ll be taking it easy the next few days, but I’ll be alright.”

Jaskier swallowed back the tears of worry that’d been building since the battle, “I—” he squeaked before clearing his throat. The bard covered the Witcher’s hand with his own, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you ‘taking it easy.’” 

Geralt huffed a laugh, “I don’t think I ever have.”

“I’m quite good at it,” Jaskier’s lips curled, “maybe I could show you a few pointers.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed in amusement before a thought passed over him, mellowing his expression.

“Jaskier,” Geralt began, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.” The bard only looked on expectantly. “Much has happened these last few weeks.” The Witcher explained, “Six years of fighting and isolation have come to an end. And you—” Geralt sighed, “The way things left off between us, I never thought I’d see you again let alone reconcile. And now we have.” It was not a question, but the Witcher looked for confirmation in Jaskier’s eyes.

“We have.” the bard echoed in assurance.

Geralt nodded, “We’ve reconciled, and I am grateful to have you back in my life in any capacity.” The Witcher swallowed and drew his and Jaskier’s hands from the bard’s shoulder, holding the other man’s fingers in the gap between their bodies. “Six years was a long time, though, and I spent much of it thinking about you and about my regrets.”

“Regrets?” Jaskier echoed with a pinch to his brow.

“Not like that!” Geralt’s eyes widened, “I’ve already told you how I realized my treatment of you as my travel companion was regretful. But, it goes beyond that. I thought you were my closest companion, but I was wrong.”

“You were wrong?” Jaskier pulled away slightly.

“No! No, not like that.” Geralt rushed to correct. He pinched at his brow and the headache forming below it. “This is all coming out wrong.”

“Well, you’re giving me some mixed signals!” Jaskier exclaimed, “Stop trying to pad your words and just say what you mean!”

“I love you!” Geralt barked back, and Jaskier’s eyes blew wide once more. “I’m _in_ love with you.” The Witcher followed softer. “I realized that I don’t want you as just my travel companion. You aren’t just my greatest friend. I love you.” Geralt explained, “I’ve _been_ in love with you, and I regretted not realizing sooner. And then, with you here within my reach, and us reconciled, I’ve regretted not telling you every single day. I was… scared.”

Geralt looked on at Jaskier for some response, but the bard was doe-eyed and seemed frozen in place.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked after a moment, “Jask? Say something. Please? I’m sorry, this was too much, I shouldn’t have—Mmph!”

The Witcher was cut off by the crash of lips over his. Jaskier gently cupped the hardened jaw of the other man before pulling away, “Don’t ever apologize.” He breathed.

“I was worried I upset you.” Geralt reached a hand to grab at the back of the bard’s neck.

“I love you too.” was all Jaskier could think to say.

Geralt smiled and leaned in to kiss the bard once more. Nearly three decades in the making, he savored in it, and cursed the human need to breath when Jaskier parted.

“Say it again.” Jaskier plead.

Geralt’s lips curled up as he repeated, “I love you.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and let the words drape over him like the sun at his back.

“Again.” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt grinned in amusement and leaned forward. He placed a kiss to one of Jaskier’s eyes, “I,” and then the other, “love.” He tilted the bard’s neck back slightly and grazed his nose against the bard’s cheek, “you.” the Witcher whispered moments before capturing Jaskier’s lips with his own.

The sun continued to rise.

By mid-day, Yennefer had finally opened her eyes.

She instantly wished she hadn’t, as the moment she did pain bloomed at her temples. The sorceress winced and sucked a sharp breath in through her teeth.

“Yen.” came a voice through the darkness. “Yen, are you awake?”

Yennefer was drawn to the voice and held fast to it.

“Hurts.” The sorceress muttered.

“Where?” the voice asked.

“Head.” Yennefer muttered. “Head hurts.”

“Your head hurts.” The voice repeated before it drifted away. Suddenly, if it were even possible, the void grew darker, and then the voice returned, “Alright, try to open your eyes now.

Yennefer did not usually take orders, but there was something in the tone of this voice she could not refuse, and so she opened her eyes once more and found the searing pain reduced to a dull throb. Not pleasant, but manageable.

The sorceress looked around her room, and found the heavy curtains drawn, the only light coming from under the door.

“Here.” The voice came from her right, and she found the body it belonged to perched on the edge of her bed.

“Priscilla.” Yennefer sighed pushing herself up into a sitting position.

Priscilla smiled in the low light and passed a glass of water into Yennefer’s hands.

“You should drink that,” the bard nodded at the cup, “it will likely help the headache lessen.”

Yennefer took a small sip and relished in the feeling of the cool water flowing down her throat. The sorceress looked over the other woman, at the litter of cuts and bruises over her face and arms, the bandage over her left hand. 

Yennefer’s brows pinched, “Your hand.” she said with concern. 

Priscilla cradled in protectively with her other hand, “Oh, this?” she placed them in her lap, “A dagger got away from me. It’s nothing really. Vesemir seemed certain it would heal naturally quickly enough.”

Yennefer nodded, seemingly satisfied, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Priscilla shook her head, “I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

“Is someone else badly hurt?” Yennefer winced as her brows tightened in worry.

“Yes,” Priscilla nodded exasperatedly, “ _you are_.”

“Oh,” Yennefer hummed, “right.”

“You almost died.” Priscilla added softly.

Yennefer looked over to the other woman and saw beyond the superficial wounds. She saw the fatigue, the fear—and the sorceress felt a jolt of an undisclosed emotion knowing that it was all because of her. It warmed an icy thing within her.

“But, I didn’t.” Yennefer assured Priscilla as much as herself.

“But I _thought_ you did.” Priscilla admitted, looking down at her hands.

Yennefer gingerly moved herself over on the bed and set the cup down on a side table. She reached out a hand in invitation for Priscilla to occupy the newly vacant space. The bard wordlessly moved next to the sorceress, and carefully curled at her side, resting her head against Yennefer’s shoulder and placing her injured hand over her lap.

“I watched you go down.” Priscilla whispered.

Yennefer picked up the bard’s hand and kissed the edge of her bandage, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Priscilla gazed up at where the sorceress’ lips met her knuckles, “you won in the end, and as heartbreaking thinking you were dead was, it made some things clear to me.”

“Oh?” Yennefer asked.

Priscilla held the other woman’s gaze as she sat up so that their eyes were level. She tucked a raven strand behind Yennefer’s ear and for a moment, languished in the pleasure of looking.

“I wasn’t sure before, if what I felt was real or not.” Priscilla replied in measured steps, “I knew it was fast. I knew the circumstances were…abnormal. And you,” Priscilla huffed a laugh, “I had you on this pedestal like you were a god or something even more untouchable. Like you were immortality itself. So, I convinced myself I would need to wait until this was over to know what was real. To know for sure how I felt. And then I saw you fall.”

Priscilla felt a thumb wipe at her cheek, and she realized she was crying.

“I saw you fall,” Priscilla repeated, “and something in me broke. And, then I knew.” she hiccupped, “I knew what I felt and it was too late.”

“It’s not too late.” Yennefer soothed fingers through Priscilla’s short hair. 

“I know.” Priscilla sniffed, a small smile on her face, “And, I know that we haven’t known each other that long, and I know I’m only a human bard and you’re the most powerful sorceress on the continent. But above all, I know I love you, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Yennefer smiled big and bright—headache be damned.

“I love you too, Priscilla.” the sorceress replied with an ease she didn’t know she was capable of. Yennefer leaned in and kissed the bard, but before their lips met she winced at a sudden wave of pain behind her eyes.

“Argh.” She clenched her jaw and brought a hand up to her temple.

Priscilla pulled away and fluffed a pillow behind where Yennefer sat. She placed a gentle hand on the sorceress’ shoulder and guided her back so that she lay flat on the mattress.

“You should get more rest.” Priscilla whispered, tracing a featherlight finger over the sorceress’ hairline.

Yennefer let her eyes fluttered closed at the soothing motion, “Will you stay?” she asked.

“Nothing could make me leave.” Priscilla responded as she maneuvered to lay beside Yennefer in the bed.

Yennefer shifted with her eyes closed so that her cheek rested on Priscilla’s chest, and the bard wrapped her arms around the sorceress’ back. She kissed the raved top of the other woman’s head, and just because she could, whispered into the silent room:

“I love you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left y'all! 
> 
> This story was always meant to be a happy one. I want my gays alive and I want them communicating love! 
> 
> There's only one chapter left, but I hope you liked this one! 
> 
> As always, so much thanks on my end for reading! whether you have been reading along with each update or just opened it, thank you for making it this far! 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue of sorts.

The hearth of Kaer Morhen was full, for what might have been the last time in a long time.

It had been a month since the battle, and the Wolves were finally done licking their wounds.

Geralt, for his part, was true to his word. For two whole weeks, he committed himself to doing nothing. Of course, it was easier to stay in a bed that was not empty, and Jaskier had been _generous_ enough to make sure it never was. Though, when it finally came to pass that Geralt was too restless to lay about all day, and deemed fully healed by both Vesemir _and_ Triss, he was back to sparring with his brothers.

Yennefer, unsurprisingly, was only enticed to stay in bed for a week before she felt the itch to leave. Priscilla offered a compromise that they could spend time healing outside, and so they began a daily ritual of packing bits from the kitchen and a few books from the library into a basket and laying together on the grass, or holed up in the greenhouse. Sometimes Triss would join, sometimes Ciri, and even occasionally Jaskier would leave his Witcher’s side and bathe in the sun for an hour or two.

A month had gone by. A month with good days and bad days. A month of healing wounds, resting aching muscles, and catching up on six years of sleep. A month of kisses, of promises, and hopes for the future.

And now here they all were, sitting around the hearth, drinking very old wine and laughing as if nothing had happened at all.

Ciri guessed this was just the Witcher way. There was always an enemy, always a battle, and if you were lucky and lived, then you kept living, until the next and the next.

The blonde-haired girl took stalk of the room. To her left Geralt and Jaskier were huddled together, talking to Vesemir. To her right, Yen was sitting nearly in Priscilla’s lap, and the two were chatting with Triss. Though Lambert and Eskel were laughing together, it didn’t escape Ciri’s notice that Eskel’s leg was pressed up against Triss’.

Something released in Ciri’s chest, a feeling she didn’t know was there. It was distantly familiar, like part of a dream she’d half forgotten by morning, but that stuck with her all the same. The feeling had almost passed when suddenly it struck her, the flicker of a memory.

It was from back in Cintra, her fourth birthday. She’d sat on her mother’s lap in her grandmother’s study. There was a fire going in the corner of the room. Her father sat on the floor next to them, smoothing his hand over her hair. Her grandmother and Eist were sat across the fire. It was quiet and she was so near to falling asleep, the already slippery moment felt even more muddled to recall, but there was a feeling then too, like the one she felt now.

Ciri recognized it as home.

A tear strayed from her eye but she wiped it away quickly.

The young wolf stood up abruptly, turning all eyes to her.

“Ciri?” Geralt asked.

“There’s something I want to ask.” Ciri turned toward Yennefer, “I want to go with you.”

In a week’s time, Yennefer, Priscilla, and Triss were heading on a journey to find people with mage potential. Since Aretuza had essentially fallen, and the council had been all but snuffed out by Fringilla and Nilfgaard, it seemed time to find new blood.

“What?” Yennefer replied.

“I want to go with you to find mages and I want to be your student _officially_.” Ciri shrugged, “I need to try and hone my power more.” 

“You mean you want to travel around the continent with us.” Triss smirked.

“Yes.” Ciri blushed, “that too.”

“But what about your Witcher training?” Vesemir asked.

“I’m eighteen now,” Ciri smiled, “think about it as me going out on the path. I’ll be home for Winter.”

“We’ll all be home for Winter.” Eskel added with a smirk.

Ciri looked back to Yennefer, who in turn was looking to Geralt.

Geralt nodded his head, so subtly it might have been a twitch, but Yennefer understood.

“Alright,” Yennefer agreed, “You can come with us.”

Ciri laughed and launched herself into the sorceress’ arms, “Thank you Yen! Thank you thank you _thank you_!” 

“You’re most welcome my dear.” Yennefer smoothed a hand down her hair and tears welled once more in her eyes.

“So I guess everyone is going to be on the path this season.” Lambert said.

“I suppose these walls have been spoiled too long with company.” Vesemir sighed.

“Actually…” Jaskier glanced at Geralt, “We won’t be.”

“You boys are going to stay at Kaer Morhen?” Vesemir asked almost hopefully.

“No.” Geralt replied.

“We’re going to the coast for a bit.” Jaskier grinned in a fashion that was both sheepish and smug.

The room went quiet for a moment. It was not awkward or unpleasant with the sound of the crackling fire bouncing off the walls.

“Well, if these halls are to be without music for the months until Winter, then we should have music now.” Vesemir suggested. The room turned its gaze towards Priscilla.

Yennefer reluctantly slid off her lap, and the bard stood from where she’d been sitting by the fire. She strode to the other end of the hall and picked up the lute which was resting there against a wall. She held it as if she were going to play, placing her palm on the strings, before she dropped her arm and the instrument to her side. She walked across to the other side of the hearth and held the lute out to Jaskier.

“My hand is still healing,” a lie, “Can you play Jask?”

“But I haven’t in months.” he muttered as he stared at the instrument in front of him.

“All the more reason to start now.” Priscilla smiled encouragingly, and a wry grin formed on the other bard’s face as he took the lute.

“Priscilla,” Jaskier asked, “will you back me up?”

Priscilla smiled warmly, “Of course darling,” she replied as she made to sit at his feet, “which song?”

Jaskier did not have to think, “A Wolven Storm,” he said before he began to pluck the first chords. 

The bards sang together, “These scars long have yearned for your tender caress/To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own/Rend my heart open, then your love profess/A winding, weaving fate to which we both atone…”

Ciri listened to the song unfold, watching Geralt as he watched Jaskier. She turned to Yennefer and knew her eyes were on Priscilla alone. The whole room was engrossed in the sound of their singing and playing, but she knew their gazes were different. In those looks she felt the size of their little family grow wider.

This year she would spend in freedom with the woman who was now her mother. The next year, perhaps she would follow Geralt, her father of surprise, back onto the Witcher’s path. She might run into Eskel and Lambert on her way. She’d have Triss and Priscilla with Yen, and Jaskier with Geralt, and Vessemir…

Vesemir, who seemed as old as Kaer Morhen itself, she’d see for Winter. All of them, she’d see for Winter. No matter where she’d travel, or with whom—even if she were to go on her own one day and share the world with only herself—Ciri knew they would come back together.

They were a family.

She’d lost a family once. She vowed not to again.

“I know not if fate would have us live as one,” Jaskier crooned, “Or if by love's blind chance we've been bound.” He and Priscilla sang together, “The wish I whispered, when it all began/

Did it forge a love you might never have found?”

The wind howled outside like a lone wolf.

Inside, the Wolves stayed warm together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's officially all folks! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and for coming back after the hiatus! 
> 
> My life has been crazy, but I wanted this fic to have the ending it deserves. I've always felt that Ciri was the heart of The Witcher, and I wanted to end this story with her. 
> 
> Please PLEASE let me know what you think! 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @Priscilladyke


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